An Odd Awakening
by Syntaxis
Summary: A young man is sucked into the world of Fire Emblem Awakening through his computer screen. But things are... different. Very different. Timelines are wonky and Chrom is... a girl? AU, gender bender.
1. What the Actual Fuck

Chapter I: What the Actual Fuck?

* * *

" _Guys, I'm not playing around. This is legit. It works."_

 _"_ _Yeah, then why are you still here, dipshit?"_

 _"_ _OP is a troll. Please don't feed him."_

 _"_ _I'm not a troll. I swear. My friend vanished right in front of me after doing it. I'm only trying to warn others."_

 _"_ _So, does this teleport you to other places too? Like can it teleport my dick into your ass?"_

 _"_ _Fine. If you all won't listen, fuck off. I'm done."_

 _"_ _Guess OP doesn't like dick in the butt."_

I stifle a snort as I read through the comments. Reddit, man. Brutal. But honestly, what did the OP expect, trying to convince the internet of something ridiculous like that? I've definitely seen better attempts to troll. Maybe I should comment, too? Might be fun to see what other crazy stuff OP says. Assuming he hasn't left yet.

Tapping my fingers briefly before typing, I write out my own question. " _OK, this sends you into the game, right? Or at least that's your hunch? Can you describe in detail what your friend did? Maybe thinking through it will help you understand as well…"_ Perfect. Respectful, polite, and inviting. Excellent troll bait. I lean back in my chair and prepare to laugh at the surely absurd instructions OP comes up with.

Rather than reply to my comment, OP messages me directly. My eyes scan his response, brows knitting together. " _Look, I know_ you're _probably not serious, but_ this _is. It's not a joke, and it isn't funny. My friend is gone. I've been over it a hundred times. One moment he was there, and the next he wasn't. The only clue was that website he had pulled up. That's all I know, and I'm not about to help someone else disappear too. You think I'm trolling, but I'm not. Even if I knew more, I wouldn't share. This is dangerous."_

What a lame troll. I mean, on the one hand, it works; I want to ask more and hear what he has to say. On the other, I know he's baiting me right back. Screw it. I'm in for the long haul now. " _Do you have the website URL? Prove you're not a troll. Because I'm not buying this whole concerned citizen act."_ Down the troll hole. This is too entertaining and nutty to ignore. Besides, it could be fun?

I laugh at the message I receive this time. " _Whatever. If you want to dig your own grave, be my guest. It's what you get for not taking me seriously. www..thefeportal..net."_ I try another reply, but no dice. He's gone. I look at the link and chuckle. Really? Now that's just campy. Not to mention impossible that the web address isn't already taken. Just to satisfy my curiosity, I search the URL.

What?

What the actual fuck?

My computer freezes the moment I hit enter. Then the screen goes black for several seconds before finally a webpage lights up the monitor. _"Do you want a different life?"_ it asks, a yes or no checkbox pulsing below. I feel myself swallow. This is officially weird. Still, I don't turn back. After the site registers I've clicked "yes," the screen fades slowly to black. I stare, waiting, my breath more ragged than it has any right to be. My computer starts humming, as if trying to run a particularly beefy game. On the screen, a blue circle appears, strange runes swirling all around it. No way.

" _Reach."_ I hear the word inside my head, clear as my own thoughts. Numb, I stretch my hand towards the portal, fingers hesitating, curling and uncurling. Closing my eyes, I extend my arm fully. When the screen doesn't stop me, I crack open an eye. I'm up to my elbow in monitor, and not in the I just rage punched my PC way. My stomach flops. I try to retract my arm, but something is tugging me now. Panicked, I scream. Nothing works. I'm being sucked inside. On the other end, everything is dark, the kind of darkness a cave has when the guide turns off the lantern. And then I'm falling through a blue sky. _Thump_. Fade to black again.

* * *

When you fall through a portal into a video game, generally you expect to immediately become the main protagonist and go on merry adventures, right? You expect to become a hero, to become an overpowered badass protected by the Law of Self Inserts and wearing the holy Plot Armor. You do not expect to wake up covered in cow shit. Which is me. Right now. Compounded with the throbbing pain in the side of my head, like a blacksmith is using my temple as an anvil, my day is off to a great start. And that's not including the fifteen minutes of screeching I did after coming to. Peachy.

Collecting myself, I manage to stand, albeit shakily. Rationally, I know what's happened. I could go through the big denial phase, but is there a point to that? I'm inside Fire Emblem Awakening. Still, I want to curl up in this cow shit and wait for death. When someone asks if you want a different life, a lot of people will say yes. Most people even. But nobody wants this, not really, not truly. Home, however terrible, is better than a world you have no idea how to survive in. I sniff, trying not to cry again. Fuck you, Reddit.

I take a step forward. I don't think about it; I'm just walking for the sake of progress. Obviously, I hope I'm near Southtown and that the Shepherds haven't already been through. If I'm not or they have… well, let's just say I'm even more fucked. I breathe. In and out. In and out. You're not gonna die in some shithole game world without even meeting the Shepherds. Fuck that. Luckily, it's daylight, and if the sun is the same as on Earth then it rises in the east and sets in the west. It feels like midafternoon at the moment. Using the sun, I orient myself south. Southtown. South, yeah?

Around me, there's nothing but rolling hills and sparse patches of trees. Which is rather unfortunate because I have no noticeable landmarks in case I get lost or turned around. It's surprisingly hard to keep walking in the same direction without the aid of a compass. At least a nice breeze blows over these hills. Getting overheated and sweating too much would not end well.

As I walk, I try to ignore the sun sinking lower and lower on the horizon. I try to ignore the fact I might be south of Southtown. I try to ignore the fact I might not be anywhere near Southtown. I fail miserably. Every anxious thought sets me more on edge, and I begin to lose control. My hands shake and my knees wobble. Each step is a laborious task. I'm about to break down when I hear it: running water. Surging with energy, I sprint toward the sound, running at top speed even as my lungs burn and grow heavy. I crest a hill and there it is in all its medieval glory. Southtown, complete with the river running through the middle. Or at least a town like Southtown.

Better yet, the buildings appear to be fully intact with no sign of fire or raiding, meaning the bandits haven't arrived. Or the Shepherds. In my eagerness to enter town, I take a tumble down the side of the hill. One undignified scramble later and I find myself in a haphazard heap. Hoisting my sore body up, I waste no more time in jogging into what is hopefully Southtown. The villagers on the streets shoot me looks of ire likely due to my not so pleasant odor and appearance, but I pay them no mind. Approaching the nearest one, I ask in a rapid tide of words, "Is this Southtown? Where am I? Please, tell me."

The villager grunts. "Aye. You're in Southtown." He pauses, giving me a once over. "Are you injured? You look as if you've seen better days."

"I'm fine! Even better now! Oh, thank God!" I nearly shout, embracing the warm relief spreading across my chest.

"Are you sure?" he asks again, quirking a brow. "If you need a new set of clothes, you might try the inn. Old Yuri could have a spare set he's willing to part with."

Basking in the glow of the newfound knowledge that I have indeed miraculously found Southtown, I nod vigorously. "Yes, thank you! You're a lifesaver."

The man mumbles an acknowledgement before shuffling away, wrinkling his nose. I stand in place for several seconds, drinking in the bliss of believing I might live to see tomorrow or, dare I say, even the day after. With a start, I realize I have no idea where the inn is (and real Southtown is much larger than game Southtown). I turn to see the villager a few yards away, heading out of town. "Hey! Where's the inn?" I call.

He doesn't bother to look at me as he points to a building just before the bridge crossing the river. I yell a thank you and trot off in the direction of the inn. The sign on the entrance merely reads "Inn." Well, that's straightforward. I push open the door, the dimly lit sight of patrons huddled together around little round tables greeting me. A smell only slightly more pleasing than my own wafts through the air. At a counter in the far-left corner, a large, older man wipes down some wooden platters. He comes complete with a long, scruffy beard and grubby apron. Yay, generic innkeeper.

He glances up as the door creaks closed behind me. A trained eye rakes over my person, and an uncomfortable prickling runs along my spine. The old innkeeper's gaze never leaves me as I walk to the counter. I open my mouth to speak, but he beats me there. "You look like shit. Literally," he says, followed by a deep rumble of laughter I do not expect from a man with such a shrewd eye.

I frown. "Well, that's why I'm here. I was told you might have spare clothes. Assuming you're Yuri."

"Yeah, that'd be me." His laughter begins to die down. "But spare clothes… I never give anything away for free."

"I don't have any money," I say flatly. "But I'm tired, smelly, and would REALLY like to put on something that isn't smeared with cow shit." Maybe pleading will do the trick. "So please, if you can give me something to wear, that'd be great."

Now it's Yuri's turn to frown. "Most folks without any money beg on the streets, not my inn." He grumbles something unintelligible and continues. "Fine, but only because you're the saddest, most desperate sap I've ever seen. Wait here." Yuri disappears into a back room and returns with a bundle of brown clothes. He places them on the counter and glares expectantly.

"Thank you," I mutter, his surliness turning into my own. I scoop the clothes off the counter and stand there a little awkwardly.

"What?" he demands, arms folding across his barrel chest. "You expect a room now too?"

I become very fascinated with the stitching on my new clothes.

The sound of his palm smacking against the countertop causes me to flinch. "Gods, what is this world coming to?" Yuri pinches the bridge of his nose. "Fine. But you're gone tomorrow." He reaches down and after some rattling pulls out a ring of keys. Moving around the counter, Yuri gestures for me to follow.

I really hadn't expected much. This guy seems like the last person who would help a stranger coated in crap. But I'm not looking a gift horse in the mouth; time to take full advantage of this man's generosity. Yuri leads me up a staircase, the boards crackling under his weight. We stop at a room that's door is fitted with a heavy looking brass knob.

"One night," Yuri says before fiddling with the lock and opening the door. The room inside lacks any notion of flair, but I'm not here for comfort. A small table and chair rests against the wall opposite the bed. That's it. Pretty barren accommodations. "Make yourself scarce tonight. Don't want word getting out I give rooms away for free."

Nodding, I step inside the room while Yuri unceremoniously closes the door quickly enough I feel the air hit my back. I sit on the edge of the bed after changing into the fresh clothes—a plain brown shirt and rough hide pants—and leave my soiled T-shirt and jeans in a pile on the floor. I settle into the bed. It's an unsurprisingly lumpy mattress. I can't complain, though. Free is free, and Yuri had no obligation to help me.

Fatigue sets in as I sit, the kind that grasps your bones and makes sure you ache to your very core. My mind whirls, however, and there's no way I'll be able to sleep even as the sun begins to cast long shadows across the room. I'm in Ylisse. Just thinking it sets the stone in my stomach on fire. I'm scared. Truly scared. While I'm thankful for the night I'm allowed to stay here, this is a world in which I have no clue how to survive. My only skill of any use in this world is woodworking, but I'm only as good as the tools I have or know how to use. I haven't the faintest idea how medieval carpentry works. Perhaps similar in principle to the modern day, but without power tools I'm just a chump. Besides, my skill level is amateur at best anyways. So, if I can't convince the Shepherds (whenever it is they come) to take me in, then I'm fucked.

A gurgling from my abdomen interrupts my thoughts. I haven't eaten since this morning, which feels a lifetime ago given the circumstances. Yuri all but told me not to leave, but a man has to eat. No sooner than I start toward the door, a gentle knock sounds from the other side. "Sir?" a distinctly feminine voice asks softly.

"Yeah?" Must be someone who works here.

"May I come in? Mister Yuri told me to bring you up some supper."

My main man Yuri. "Yes, please! I'm starving," I answer eagerly. The door opens and in walks a short girl, plain with braided brown hair. She's carrying a tray that appears to hold a bowl of soup and a hunk of bread and cheese. Modest, but I'd eat almost anything right now.

"Sir," she says, dipping her head and placing the tray on the table. "Please help yourself. I will return later to gather up the dishes."

"Thanks," I respond, already almost halfway into the chair. "You know, for a guy who doesn't give away anything for free, I sure have gotten a lot of free stuff."

The girl smiles slightly and cups her cheek. "Is that what Mister Yuri told you?" she asks, giggling. "Silly old man. He likes to act tough, but he's always helping someone out like this…. He gave me this job even though he didn't need the help."

I look up at her mid-bite into the chunk of bread. "Well, shit. Here I thought I was special." It makes sense though. Yuri clearly has a big heart. The grumpy old man act is probably just because he doesn't want to admit to himself how soft he really is.

She laughs again. "Well, if you need anything, sir, I'll be down the hall to the right in the storage room. Mister Yuri likes to have me do inventory when there's not much else to do." With that, she turns to leave.

"Wait. I didn't catch your name."

"Agatha," she says with a grin. "And yours, sir?"

"Michael. But most people call me Mike." I offer a smile in return, though it feels a little strained. My friends… they all call me Mike. I wonder if they know I'm gone yet.

She places a finger on her chin. "Hmm… Michael is a pretty spiffy name for someone like you, sir."

"Huh?" I say before realizing the new clothes don't change the smell or the shit caked to my hair. My face flushes with embarrassment. "Is… Is there somewhere I can take a bath?"

"Of course. Across the hall. I was going to wait until I'd collected your tray, but I can go ahead and draw up a tub for you," she says, once again giggling. "Didn't think we'd let you stink up the place, did you?"

"You know," I begin, scowling, "you were awfully polite when you first walked in."

"Ah, but that was before we got onto a first name basis, sir," she chimes, spinning with flourish to exit. "Just holler if you need anything… Mike." She pulls the door shut behind her.

Cheeky little… Oh well. At least I'm getting a bath. I tuck into the remainder of my meal, remembering how ravenous I am. I've eaten the whole tray in a matter of minutes. I sit in the chair for a while, letting the food settle before I decide to see if Agatha has the bath ready. Across the hall is another door with another brass knob, though this door is slightly ajar. Peeking inside, Agatha seems to have drawn the bath judging by the amount of steam coming out of the large wooden tub in the center of the room. Looking around to make sure she isn't still present, I disrobe and slip into the mercifully warm and soothing water. A bar of lye and a towel lie beside the tub. I take to furiously scrubbing my skin until the point it becomes raw and red. I do the same for my hair, careful to get every bit of cow shit clean from my scalp. Not wanting to stew in water now inundated with feces, I get out and dry myself with the towel.

I've only just begun to wipe myself down when a cry pierces the silence. "BANDITS! BANDITS IN THE STREETS!" The shout seems to have come from the window, which overlooks the bridge. I dash over, throwing open the shutters entirely. Villagers are fleeing from a group of brutish looking men carrying axes and swords. One poor schmuck catches a hand axe to the back of the head. I promptly vomit out the window. Holy fuck. I just saw someone die. A real person. Flesh and bone. And they're dead. I could go through the part in every story where the main character deals with death and violence and how different it is from his own life, but I won't. Seeing it was revolting, and that's all I'm going to say.

Downstairs it sounds like all hell is breaking loose. Screaming, yelling, crying, glass shattering. The bandits must be inside here as well. Quickly, I gather up my clothes and throw them on. I need somewhere to hide. Scanning the room, there's nothing. I hear footfalls pounding up the stairs. I'm running out of time. If they find me…. Images of the unfortunate villager flood my brain.

"You take the doors on the right. I'll take the ones on the left," a gruff voice says, worryingly nearby. Looks like going into the hallway is no longer an option. In an effort to hide, I crouch behind the tub so that I can't be seen from the door. I hear the floorboards strain as one of the bandits enters the room. I hold my hands over my mouth to keep my haggard breathing in check. He wanders around for a bit, not doing a particularly thorough investigation, before leaving. My hands drop, and I hyperventilate. A scream jolts me back to reality.

"Get off me you bastard!" The voice comes from the end of the hall. Agatha. One of the bandits must have found her. Fuck. I'm faced with a dilemma: on one hand, this is a perfect opportunity to run. On the other, I can't let Agatha be… killed. The decision is clear. Fucking morality. I bolt from my hiding spot, rounding the door and heading toward her scream. The bandits have her cornered, their bulky statures giving her no avenue for escape. One of them is tearing at her dress.

"Come on, lassie! Lemme have some fun with ye first!" Oh, hell no you don't, motherfucker.

"Hey, you big, ugly pieces of shit!" I yell, successfully grabbing their attention. "Can't get any the right way, so you do this instead?"

My tactic works. I piss them off. Both bruisers turn and clamber my way. A plan formulates. A stupid, reckless, and probably doomed plan. I run headlong toward the burly men, letting loose an almost certainly wimpy battle cry. But all I need is one moment of shock. And by the looks in their eyes, I've got it. They hesitate, brandishing their axes. Just as I'm about to collide with one of them, I drop to the floor and slide between his open legs. Fuck yeah. Without missing a beat, I keep going, arms outstretched for Agatha.

"Hang on," I say, tackling her.

I wrap my arms around her and tuck her head into my chest as we blast through the window at the end of the hallway. Feeling her clinging for dear life as we fall, her scream rattles my eardrums. We hit the ground hard, having maybe jumped down twenty feet or so. My ankle rolls and splitting pain shoots up my leg. But I manage to keep Agatha safe from the brunt of the fall. Thank God.

Something is wrong, though. No, it's not the obvious bandits raiding the town. It's that they're doing it at _night_. In the game, the prologue chapter is clearly daytime. The sun has completely set here. This is all wrong. But I'm definitely in Southtown. Why is this happening at night? Where are the Shepherds? What the fuck is going on?

"Now would be a really great time for you to fucking show up, Chrom!" I say loudly, aggravation and fear tinting the words.

"It's a good thing I'm here then," a _female_ voice responds confidently.

I roll away from Agatha, who's currently getting her bearings back after my crazy rescue. Looking up, I see a young woman, barely younger than myself in all likelihood. Short blue hair stops just above her shoulders, one of which is bare while the other sports a polished pauldron. Her shirt is essentially a tank top, but medieval style with thicker fabric and leather patches for protection. A mailed skirt covers her thighs, ending just above the knees. Falchion glimmers proudly in her hand. _Her_ hand. But there is absolutely no doubt this is Chrom… ette. Not far behind her is a boy with blond hair wearing a yellow shirt and brown leather vest. A heavily armored knight rides on horseback further down the street, her long dark brown hair flowing out behind her as she strikes down a bandit. Finally, a white-haired… man… woman… I…. can't tell… Oh dear God.

What the actual fuck?

Seriously?

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Hello, all! I hope you enjoyed that introduction to my story! My goal here is to first and foremost entertain, but I've also thought Fire Emblem fanfiction might need a little gender bender fun! So yes, all the Shepherds and playable characters are gender-bent. Secondarily, I want this story to engage emotionally and offer up a real connection for readers to experience. Also, feel free to speculate as to why the timeline is already being wonky! Because that's a big deal in this story. Butterfly effect~~~ Also, side note: FFn HATES URL links, so that's why the one in the story looks so odd.

Anywho, thank you so much for reading! See you next time (which will be soon)!


	2. Showdown in Southtown

Chapter II: Showdown in Southtown

* * *

My mind reels as I process the sight in front of me. Not only does Chrom seem to be… girlified, but the other Shepherds are gender swapped as well. Minus Robin. I have no idea what Robin is. I make a mental note to ask once this is over, assuming we all survive this clusterfuck. Meanwhile, Chrom peers down at me, her expression a marriage of confusion and curiosity.

"I seem to be encountering a lot of strange people today who know my name," she says, more to herself than me. Chrom levels her gaze fully at mine. "But we can discuss why you appear to know me… and that I'd be here… Anyways, we will discuss this later. You two took quite the fall. Are you OK?"

I do not look forward to that conversation later. "I think Agatha is fine," I begin, giving her a glance and receiving a nod, "but I'm pretty sure my ankle is sprained." I try to put a little weight on it, only to be met with intense pain.

Chrom catches my grimace and waves the blond boy—male Lissa I presume—over. "His ankle is sprained. Maybe broken even. Can you help?" she asks then turns to me. "This is Liston. He's a healer."

"Liston" takes a knee beside me, studying my ankle before raising his staff to it. "Stay still," he orders in a voice remarkably high-pitched for a boy. The staff orb glows as the healing magic flows into my skin. Being healed feels a lot like local anesthesia, a temporary numbness followed by a dull throbbing. But aside from the minor pain, it's as if my ankle was never sprained at all.

"Try it out," Liston says, and I gingerly test my ankle by trying to stand. No issues whatsoever. Incredible. Modern medicine has nothing on this shit. I offer Agatha a hand, supporting her as she gets to her feet as well.

"Thanks. I owe you." I'm about to warn Chrom about the bandits inside the tavern, but the two knuckle draggers themselves lumber into the street just then. Seeing Agatha and me, they charge, but being the idiots they are, they fail to take notice of Chrom bringing down Falchion into the left one's neck. He crumples, head hanging on only by a thin strip of flesh. If I hadn't already vomited earlier, I'd do it again. The remaining bandit lets out an enraged roar and flails wildly at Chrom.

"Ye killed 'im! Yer gonna die fer that!" the bandit bellows. "Fer Karl—" He never gets his epic revenge. Chrom's blade finds itself buried hilt deep in the thug's chest. The bandit is dead before his limp body collapses to the ground. The scene might be amusing if it wasn't real.

Galloping hooves clatter along the stone street. Frederick… Frederica…pulls up alongside Chrom, Robin trailing not far behind. "Milady! The brigands have taken control of the bridge. I believe they must be holed up in the church on the other side. If we hope to save these townspeople, we must break through their line." As she briefs Chrom, she dismounts, leveling a calculating gaze at Agatha and I. "Who are these two?"

Chrom glances from Frederick to me. "They're villagers. I think. One of them seems to know me," she says, not unkindly, thumbing at me.

Frederick brushes past Chrom. "Two in one day? I don't believe in coincidence," she says, leering at me. She stands almost exactly my height, but fills the space in a way I never could. Her presence is… intimidating, "How do you know milady? Are you in league with that one?" She gestures at Robin, who looks woefully bemused.

"Um." I'm drawing blanks. There really is no easy explanation. "No?"

Her eyes narrow and she tries to say something else, but Chrom places a hand on her shoulder. "Peace, Freya. I saw this man leap from that window, that girl in his arms. Clearly, they were running from these men," she explains, pointing at the bloodied corpses. "They mean us no ill will."

"But milady—"

"Enough. Was it not you who told us we needed to take the bridge? We've more important matters at hand," Chrom reasons, offering me a reassuring smile.

"Agreed." Robin speaks for the first time, voice as implacable as their appearance. "Freya, do you know how many guard the bridge?"

Freya composes herself. "Perhaps a half dozen, give or take a man. Most wield axes, though there is a mage as well."

Robin nods, digesting the information. "You two," they say, "Do either of you possess skill in battle?"

Agatha shakes her head. "No! I'm just worker in the inn," she says, quaking.

I feel Robin's eyes on me. "And you?"

Fuck. I hate being average. I hate being in this world. I'm useless here. "No," I say. "I don't."

Chrom must sense my frustration, because she steps forward and claps me on the back. "There's no shame in not being a fighter. These are just the roles we play."

"Yeah, well, my role sucks," I snap. I should be happy not having to fight. But it doesn't sit well. Aren't I supposed to be a hero in this type of story?

Freya gives a derisive snort. "If you cannot fight, then stay back. I won't have you endangering milord and milady.

"Wait," Robin says, stepping between us. "There is something. If one of these two villagers acts as a distraction to lure men from the bridge, we can ambush the bandits from two sides as they leave. A classic pincer attack!" The glow on Robin's face is almost disturbing.

"That… makes sense," agrees Freya in the most disagreeable manner.

Robin stares at Agatha and me in turn. "Well?" they ask, but Agatha is already trembling.

"I-I can't. Sorry," she says meekly.

"I'll do it." Part of me knows this is just bravado, an attempt to convince myself that I'm "chosen" or whatever. Being on the sideline… it's not right. Not when there's something, anything, I can do to help. I'm not a hero, and I never will be, but I can do this at least.

"Then it's settled," Robin says, launching into full tactician mode. "Chrom and Freya will hit from the right while I blast the mage first and then funnel the enemy with magic. Liston, you stay behind Chrom and Freya, ready to heal. And…" Robina trails off.

"Michael," I supply.

"Michael." Robin nods in delayed greeting. "Michael will distract the bandits and draw them off the bridge. You might have to get creative there." A crooked smile splits across their face.

Agatha pipes up, her tone one of concern and incredulity. "Are you serious, Mike? You could be hurt. You could die. We barely got away from those… those men, and now you're ready for more?"

Chrom fixes the serving girl with a disarming smile. Still inherently charming it seems. "I think Michael knows the risk. This is a brave act."

I give Agatha my own attempt at a charming smile, but she only sighs. "Fine. I should have guessed you'd volunteer after that jump out the window." She squeezes my arm. "You better not die after saving me like that."

I want to assemble some kind of witty reply, a pithy one-liner, the kind every action movie star is born to say. But I'm not that guy. "I hope I don't die too," I say dryly.

"Well," Robin interrupts, coughing. "If we're done with the chatter, I'd prefer we move into positions." Everyone voices their agreement, and Chrom, Freya, and Liston move to the right, using the buildings as cover to conceal their ambush. Robin does the same on their side, leaving me to muster up the stones to go taunt some bandits. I take a deep breath, readying myself to step into the open. However, Agatha tugs on my sleeve.

"I'll wait in the inn," she says, already pale. "I need to check on Mister Yuri. I'm afraid he might be…." She can't finish. I don't blame her. He's a good man, and I hope to God he's fine. Without another word, she disappears into the building.

Summoning my limited courage, I take a stance at the foot of the bridge. I channel my inner Redditor for some class insults. "Hey, you inbred sheep fuckers!" I shout. "If I didn't know any better I'd think your parents were siblings! So ugly!"

Six pairs of venomous eyes fixate on me, the furthest back belonging to the big boss, a man so memorable I can't even recall his name. Gulping, I continue. "What? Why so silent? You look like your sister just rejected you. For your dad."

Scowling, the leader glares at the mage and jerks his head at me. Oh shit. This isn't part of Robin's plan. Panic barely registers before a blade of wind cuts across my stomach, slicing deep. Blood pours from the gash, pain like I've never felt erupting in my gut. I fall to the side, seeing four bandits approaching, probably hoping to finish the job and gloat. From my vantage point and fast fading vision, I see a bolt of thunder magic absolutely annihilate the mage who opened me up. Two more bolts follow, crashing into the advancing bandits. They become disorganized, easy prey for Chrom and Freya—who left her horse behind, likely for stealth—to impale on the ends of their weapons. Five men dead in seconds. Robin knows tactics, that's for sure.

The warm wetness of blood soaks my clothes and pools under me. I grow cold, my fingers and toes ceasing to exist as far as my nerves are concerned. Thoughts become replaced by pure primal drive. Live. Survive. Don't die.

Don't die.

Don't…

Black. Again.

* * *

I awake in the same room Yuri lent me, the moldy and stiff bed digging into my back. Instinctively, I touch my wound, or where the wound used to be. Only a thin scar remains. Lissa—Liston—must have healed me. Guess even a healing staff can't eliminate traces of an injury like that. I attempt to sit up, but it's like I've been punched repeatedly in the stomach. Moaning, I roll onto my side, a position slightly more comfortable.

Awe that I'm alive finally hits. In the real world (I suppose this _is_ the real world now) a devastating blow like that would have killed anyone, regardless of medical treatment. But I'm lying here with only a scar and some pain. Magic kicks ass. I need to thank Liston as soon as I see him again.

Daylight flitters through the shutters. I was out all night, it seems. The fact I'm safely in this room with my wound healed tells me we won the fight. But at what cost? Is Yuri alive? Is Agatha still OK?

The latter question is answered as Agatha opens the door, a damp cloth in one hand and a tray of food in the other. The redness around her eyes answers the first. Fuck.

"You're awake!" she exclaims, her dreary disposition lifting slightly. Agatha rushes to the table, setting the tray down with a clatter, then beelining for my bedside. "I was worried. Liston did his best, but you lost a lot of blood. I'm so glad you're all right."

"Never better," I joke before my mouth settles into a grim line. "Yuri…. Is he…?"

It almost physically hurts to see the change in her expression as she shakes her head. "When I got inside…. He was already…." Sobs rack her body. I place an awkward but hopefully calming hand on her shoulder. She clutches it tightly. Goddamn bandits. I'd kill them myself if they weren't already dead.

Knocking on the doorframe breaks apart the moment of grief. "I heard voices," Chrom says, relief clear on her face. "Thank the gods you've recovered. That was some hit you took out there. How are you feeling?" She steps toward me, stopping a couple paces from Agatha, who immediately straightens up and wipes her eyes.

"Sore," I answer, finding a weak smile. "Where's Liston? I need to thank him for healing me."

Chrom ruffles the hair at the base of her neck. "Liston is sleeping. He was up all night healing wounded villagers—" a mighty yawn cuts through the words.

"Looks like Liston isn't the only one who stayed up all night," I observe.

Chrom's face is dark. "The dead do not bury themselves."

Silence stretches between the three of us, a palpable tension, anger and mourning rippling. Agatha speaks. "I'm going to check on the other patients," she says, scurrying away like any place is place she'd rather be.

"Patients?" I give Chrom a questioning look.

She shrugs. "We've converted the inn into a field hospital of sorts to deal with all the wounded. Agatha has been working non-stop. I think the innkeeper… Yuri… I think his death affected her greatly."

"He was a great man. If it wasn't for him…" I try to imagine last night if Yuri hadn't given me a place to stay. I'd likely have slept on the street. The same street where that man took an axe to the skull. That man would probably have been me if not for Yuri. "Let's just say I owe him a debt that can now never be repaid." I sound bitter, more bitter than I knew I could sound.

Chrom sits at the foot of the bed, the mattress groaning under the new occupant. "Whatever debt you think you owe, forget it. You paid it one thousand times over when you stood before that bridge."

"Tell that to Yuri." I grit my teeth.

Sighing, Chrom rests a palm on my knee. "I can't. So, I'm telling it to you. Michael, you helped avenge his death."

Unconvinced, I huff. "Whatever," I say crossly, retracting my knee from her touch. I want to change the subject; this is a wound magic can't heal. "The other two with you, where are they? Are they sleeping too?"

"Freya and Robin? No," Chrom says, graciously accepting the change in topic. "Freya is probably pacing outside the inn. She's itching to question you. But don't worry, I know you mean me no harm. Last night squashed any doubts I had. What you did was selfless and courageous. You nearly died. So, thank you. Truly."

Selfless and courageous. Doesn't feel that way. Feels pathetic. Yuri is dead, and I nearly died in a puddle of my own blood my first day in this world. Some hero. What good is a fantasy world when you're just plain old you? "And Robin?" I ask, ignoring the gratitude.

Chrom's eyebrows knit together. "He… She… Ugh. Robin. Robin is downstairs helping with the wounded. "

I laugh, despite my mood. "You can't tell either?"

"No!" Chrom's eyes blaze with determination. "But I WILL find out."

"Does Robin know that? Might not appreciate you invading their privacy like that," I say slyly.

Her face flushes deep crimson. "What? No! No, no, no. Not like that! Gods!"

"Can't you just ask?"

Chrom frowns. "We tried. Doesn't go anywhere. 'Robin, are you a man or a woman?'" She adopts a very un-Robin-like Robin pose. "'Hmm, I suppose I do like cute animals, but I also like meat. A lot.' See?" The Robin voice is even worse, and I struggle not to cackle at Chrom's expense.

"Sounds infuriating," I remark. What an odd individual. Then again, Robin is a strange character sometimes.

"What's infuriating?" Robin rounds the doorframe, followed closely by Freya, whose hawk-like gaze is ever-present.

Chrom stands. "You! You're infuriating. Out with it! Man or woman?"

Robin scratches their chin. "Hmm, I suppose I do like pink, but I also like large dogs. Scary ones."

"Do you see what I'm dealing with?" Chrom says to me, exasperated. I just laugh, finally unable to contain it.

Freya looks unamused at the shenanigans. "Milady. This is not a trivial matter. Robin is clearly toying with us. I've already had enough. I don't trust… them." She rounds on me next. "And you. How did you know milady? Explain yourself."

Fortunately—actually very, very unfortunately—I never get to answer the question. Perhaps it's because this is a fantasy world. Perhaps it's because the Law of Interrupting Catastrophe governs plots. Perhaps it's simply random. But the ground begins to shake.

I'm thrown from the bed, rolling until I smack into the wall beneath the window. Holding my burning abdomen, I prop myself up so I can see out the window. The earth is literally rolling, lifting houses and tearing them apart in one cruel motion. Lava springs up from the ground, in places like a geyser and others like great lakes of fire. Flaming rocks shower down around the town, crushing buildings and townspeople alike, the rifts in the earth having shot the molten boulders into the sky. What I now recognize as a Risen portal, a blue eye ringed by runes, the same as on my computer, opens among the clouds of smoke and ash. Undead warriors spill from the portal like a menacing ooze. With frightening ferocity, they attack, slaying every villager they can reach. If the bandits were bad, this is another level.

"What in Naga's name…" Freya breathes, all suspicion on her features giving way to utter disbelief.

"We need to move. NOW!" Chrom commands, hooking her arms around both Freya and me. "Let's go!" She drags us along, Robin not far behind.

As we near the door, the floor shakes more violently than ever, the side of the building we'd just been on caving in entirely. With a completely unobstructed view, I can see the full range of the chaos outside. It's like Armageddon. The fire, lava, the undead. It isn't just a few Risen. It's a tide of them, at least a couple hundred. The village is surely doomed. At this point we just need to escape. If we can. Running into the hall, we collect Liston and Agatha who had both been sprinting away from the now burning storage room. Downstairs is a nightmare from the deepest layer of hell. Risen hack the wounded to bits, the smell of the freshly dead and the decomposing mingling together. Chrom, Freya, and Robin do what they can to vanquish the invaders, but it takes all their might just to get the six of us out of the building.

In thick of this apocalypse, I'm reminded once again that this should not be happening. Not here and not like this. What is going on? Why is this world not following the timeline of the game? Or even the Future Past timeline? Why? Why does nothing make sense? And why am I so _powerless_? This is supposed to be my story. That's the way these things work, right? No. No, it's not. This is reality now. And reality doesn't give a fuck who you are.

And as evidenced by the wave of Risen about to overwhelm us down the street, reality _really_ doesn't give a fuck.

* * *

 **Author's Note** : First, I'd like to thank you all for the incredible response since I first posted only a couple days ago. I've received 6 followers, 1 favorite, 1 review, and over 130 hits. I'm beyond happy. Thank you all so much for taking the time to check this crazy story out. I promise it only gets better from here! If you have any questions, ideas, or speculations, please write a review, or feel free to PM me.

And to my reviewer… I'm so glad you're enjoying a gender bender fic like mine! I hope to make it so much more than that though… Poking fun at SIs, whatever do you mean? :)


	3. The Rooftop

Chapter III: The Rooftop

* * *

I want to say we make a valiant stand against the Risen horde. I want to say I come into my true purpose of Kicking Ass™. But we don't. I don't. We run. And I scream like a little bitch doing it. Surviving the mass of rotting warriors on our heels takes precedent. Even accomplished fighters like Chrom and Freya stand no chance battling that many foes. The games lead you to believe one unit, properly leveled and equipped, can solo an entire map in some cases. Here, that's not so. No way. The Shepherds are flesh and bone and blood, ordinary squishy humans. What sets them apart here isn't how many times they can get slashed and get back up again; it's how many times they're willing to risk being killed. Sure, we're running, but the Shepherds take every opportunity to save a life. Pushing a villager out of harm's way, stabbing a wayward Risen, blocking a lethal blow—it's a compassionate retreat.

Me, I'm sticking as close to Chrom as possible, relying entirely on her skill to keep me alive. We're faster than the Risen but only barely. Every few seconds, one catches up and must be dealt with. If it was just me, I'd be a visceral mess on the pavement right now. Agatha too. Freya's saved her life at least a dozen times in the past few minutes.

"We can't keep this up!" Robin says, urgency coloring their tone. "There! That building ahead. There's a roof access from the outside. We can hole up there and create a plan." The building in question is one of the few left completely intact, and given the earthquake has largely subsided, Robin is right to think we can hold out on the roof.

Our party beelines for the ladder hanging from the building's side. Mercifully, it's wide enough for two at a time. I'm paired off with Chrom, Liston with Freya, and Agatha with Robin, ensuring those of us unarmed stand a fighting chance if the Risen get too close. We slash and parry our way up the ladder, Robin zinging thunder down to cover us. Once the last of us is over the roof's threshold, Robin zaps the ladder, rendering it useless. We don't have a safe way down, but at least the Risen can't follow.

Up top the roof is entirely flat with the only point of interest being a padlocked trapdoor in the middle. We have a significant height advantage to survey the carnage below. There are no villagers in sight. I can only pray they escaped rather than met untimely ends, but my reservoir of hope runs low. Risen pack the streets, prowling about for any sign of the living. Those that take notice of us attempt to climb the walls, but slide down after scaling only a short distance. We're safe. At least until we're forced to move again.

The trapdoor both concerns and intrigues me. "What is the building? What's this door here for?" I ask no one in particular.

"This is the granary," Agatha explains. "There's a door on the roof because otherwise the grain would all spill out."

"Ah," I say simply. "Can the Ris—those things get up here through there?" Saved it. Whew.

Agatha frowns. "Probably not. I can't be sure, but it's unlikely considering this building has no other doors. Grain goes in and comes out through the top."

"Excellent," Robin says firmly. "That's very tactically advantageous. I think it's safe to take a breather."

The whole group almost simultaneously plops down and sprawls out. My muscles throb; I can already feel knots building up in my calves and thighs. This is bad. A cramp on the run could be fatal. I begin massaging my legs, kneading and trying to relieve some of the tensed-up tissue.

Liston scoots over to me, staff lifted. "You seem a little worse for wear there. Let me heal you." He doesn't wait for an answer, leveling the staff at my legs. The illuminated orb hums and vibrates as I lose sensation in my lower limbs, followed by sweet relief.

"Thanks again. I owe you."

"Nah. I'm a healer. It's what we do," he says in a chipper manner.

Chrom crawls over as well, her mailed skirt clinking together as she does. "But have you paid any attention to yourself, Liston? _You_ seem a little worse for wear. Relax a bit, I know you're a tad delicate…"

"I am NOT delicate!" Liston protests. "It's just… A man can be sensitive too, you know? Hmph." He plants his hands on his hips, and for a moment I see Lissa. You may want to be the manliest of men, Liston, but the femme is strong in you, my friend.

"With all due respect, milady and milord," Freya cuts in, "This is hardly the time for banter. We may be secure on this roof at present, but it leaves us few options for escape. We are marooned, I'm afraid."

Killjoy. But she's right; Robin's quick thinking saved us, yet also left us without much recourse. Naturally, I turn to Robin. If someone can make lemons into lemonade here, it's Robin. "Please tell me you have something in mind," I say, almost pleading.

Robin rubs their forehead, adopting a meditative expression. "I'm sorry. I'll need time to think. The space between buildings is too far to leap, not to mention hardly any are still standing. But there is a way out of this. I know it. I just have to find it." Robin sounds both determined and frustrated, their fists curling and uncurling.

"Then we'll leave you to it," Chrom says, taking me by the arm and standing us both up. "Robin is a tactician. And a good one, as you've seen. I have faith that we're in competent hands." She smiles, a small curve of belief that seems to mean as much to her as it does to me.

Freya blows a long stream of air, an audible note of displeasure. "Need I remind you, milady, that this Robin character is not to be trusted? No memories? But the first word out of their mouth is your name? Can we really entrust our lives—"

" _Enough_!" Chrom yells, a raised tone of finality. "Freya, how can you still be saying that after all this? We would all be dead if not for Robin. They fought to save our lives. I understand some skepticism, but this is too much."

"Milady. You must consider that it all may be an elaborate ruse. What better way to ingratiate oneself to the enemy than to save them? I do not and will not trust Robin," Freya practically spits the words as poison before turning to me. "Or you. Don't think I've forgotten about your little slipup."

"FREYA!" Chrom is right up in her companion's face. "This is madness! Either you accept both of them or stop speaking. I don't want to hear your voice again unless it's in agreement with me."

The loyal knight looks as if Chrom stabbed her with Falchion rather than words. I suspect if other company were not present, Freya would break into tears. I'd feel sorry for her if she wasn't such an asshole about all this. Silently, Freya stalks away to sulk, taking a seat at the farthest corner and glaring down at the Risen.

Chrom roughly runs a hand through her hair. "Gods. That woman." She looks between Robin and me. "I apologize about Freya… She really does mean well. I suppose she's just overprotective."

Waving a hand, Robin dismisses the outburst. "Don't worry. I understand. There are far worse things to be."

"Like a giant asshole?" I say sardonically.

Chrom chuckles a little. "I promise she'll come around. It may take some time, but she will."

I nod, not convinced. In the games, Frederick took ages to warm up to Robin, and that's with Robin constantly saving their lives, devising fantastic plans, and generally being a superstar. Me? I'm a scrub. Freya has no reason to accept me. Apparently, almost dying for the cause doesn't help my case.

For the first time, a very troublesome thought enters my mind, brought on by Freya's distrust. What if I can't join the Shepherds? Up until now, I'd almost assumed it would happen simply because it's _supposed_ to happen. The self-insert hero joins forces with the other heroes and saves the world. That's how it _works_. He doesn't have to do anything for it. He doesn't have to beg. He doesn't have to prove anything. Hell, most of the time he gets special powers and "sees" people's levels and shit. Even the lame ass self-inserts get to tag along for no explainable reason at all. Bottom line, if you're thrown into a video game, you get to be a top tier hero.

Except none of this applies to me.

I landed in cow shit. I have no combat skill. The timeline is fucked. The Shepherds aren't even the proper genders. I'm not even Robin. _Nothing_ is the way these things should go. I'm only alive because of sheer luck (well, maybe I have a little Plot Armor). But my point is reality and stories are not the same. No matter how real the story or how fantastic the reality, they aren't the same. I've been calling this reality. But is it? It feels real. Intuitively, I know it's real. I'm in a fantasy, though. So, does it even matter? No. Shit is just going to happen. And that's that.

The clash of steel on steel rings across the wasteland that was once Southtown. In unison, the six of us turn our heads to see a slender figure dueling with several Risen in the alleyway below. A butterfly-shaped mask obscures their face, but I'm already aware of who this is. Lucina. Or whatever he's called if she's male. Long blue hair whips around as Lucina trades blows with the Risen, giving me hope that at least she's normal. Or normal in the only way this fucked up world can be.

Immediately, Chrom's sense of duty and honor kicks in. "We have to help her. She won't last must longer down there alone," she says, already palming Falchion (why does no one realize until the arena fight that Lucina HAS THE SAME SWORD).

"Hold, Chrom," Robin cautions. "If we go down there's no easy way back up. I agree we must help, but we have to go about this the right way. I'll shoot some thunder magic to give her space. The rest of you fashion a rope from whatever spare cloth you have. Hurry!"

As Robin fires thunderbolt after thunderbolt, Agatha and I collect scraps from Chrom, Freya, and Liston, the most useful of which being Chrom's cape. We end up with perhaps just enough for Lucina to jump and reach the rope once we've tied the pieces together. But there's no time to worry about "ifs." It's no surprise that Freya produces some exquisite knots, but Agatha rivals if not surpasses Freya in skill. The pair have a makeshift rope fastened in only a couple minutes. Chrom tosses the rope over the side of the wall, motioning for us to help pull.

"Grab on!" she cries down to Lucina, who hastily complies. We haul her up the side of the building, Risen narrowly missing as they swipe at Lucina's heels. Once among us, it is clear—to me at least—that Lucina is not "Lucina." The shoulders are a little too wide, the hips a bit too boyish. But when he speaks, I have no doubts remaining.

"You have my gratitude," Lucina says in a high falsetto, clearly meant to fool us. Incredibly, I seem to be the only one who _isn't_ fooled.

"We weren't going to let you die down there, miss," says Chrom. "Though you seem to handle yourself quite well." Chrom extends a hand in greeting. "My name is Chrom. Might I ask yours?"

Lucina at least has the sense to angle himself so that Falchion is partially hidden. "You may call me Marth."

Chrom's eyes widen. "Marth? After the heroic queen of old? You certainly fight like a hero. Where did you learn your way with a sword?"

"I'm not here to talk about me. This world teeters on the brink of a horrible calamity. This is but a prelude. I am here to warn you and to make sure you escape. Though I did not anticipate needing to do the latter." I get the distinct feeling "Marth" is watching me behind that mask. The scripted dialogue derailed. Is that my doing? Is it my fault these changes are occurring? If he's surprised about the location of the Risen attack, Lucina hides it well. Perhaps something deeper than my mere presence is at play, though I can only guess at what.

"The way I see it, you needed us a little more than we needed you back there," Chrom counters, though good-naturedly. "But you speak as if you know what is to come. How is that possible?"

"Questions for another time," Lucina says bluntly. "For now, let us depart from this place."

Freya steps forward, scowling. "And how exactly do you propose we do that? These things surround us on all sides." Jesus, is her default tone "dickhead?" I want to see want it takes to leave a good first impression on Freya. Or maybe not.

Lucina ignores the hostility. "With this." He produces a small pouch, velvet, embroidered with a distinctive rune. "This is powder made from the orb of a healing staff. Given the right spellweaving, it becomes an invaluable teleportation dust."

I finally understand how Lucina always vanishes so quickly in the games. I'm thoroughly impressed, but Freya is thoroughly not.

"Pegasus dung!" she exclaims. "You speak cryptically about a coming disaster and now expect us to use your 'teleportation dust' to poof away from here? Are we to encounter only the most untrustworthy of individuals?" Freya looks to Chrom for support, surely hoping this time the princess will see the wisdom of reason.

It is Liston who speaks first. "Personally, I trust Marth. Why risk her life to warn us only to hurt us later? That's nuts, Freya."

"Liston is right," Chrom agrees. "And do you see another option?"

"I confess," pipes up Robin, "that I have been unable to think of a better way out."

Agatha hovers near me, her hands clutching her dress tightly. "This is all insane," she whispers to me. "I don't have any idea what's happening. I just want things to go back to normal." She begins to cry.

"You and me both. But look around. This is what's left. We have to move on," I tell her, probably needing to hear the words more myself.

"But…. Southtown…" She chokes on a sob.

"Look," I say, waving a hand at the ruined, burning town. When she doesn't, I shake her until she peeks up. "Look at it. This isn't Southtown. Southtown is gone. Everything is gone. Your home. Your friends…. Your… your family…" It's my turn to cry. Weep, more accurately. For the first time, I let my true feelings out. All the rage, the sorrow, the confusion, the bitterness—all my emotions erupt from the relative numbness I've felt since arriving. I admit it to myself. I clicked that button for a different life. I wanted something not so… mundane. But not this. Never this. Never standing on a roof encircled by zombie soldiers. Everything I ever loved I took for granted when I made the decision to choose the promise of a self-indulgent fantasy over real life. And now I'm suffering for it. If you think you want this, you don't.

By now, the rest of the group is staring at me. Even Agatha dries her tears enough to look sympathetic. Chrom walks toward me, slowly, carefully, like approaching a wounded animal. Which I suppose I am. "Sounds like you've lost a lot, Michael. I can't say I know what it feels like to lose so much, but I understand loss. Michael… This might sound contrived, but you will find more. As you said yourself, you have to move on. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow or even the day after. But you'll move on."

Knowing what Chrom has to go through, her words almost make me feel worse. But the intention is pure and kind, and I appreciate it greatly. "Thank you," I manage. "Before I…. came to Southtown, I lived a pretty normal life. It was a good life. Friends, family, two cats. But I did something stupid and lost it all. I guess it hadn't set in yet."

I feel Agatha's hand entwine with mine. She squeezes hard. "Mike. I know how you feel," she says plainly. "I know how you feel."

"As… touching as this is," Freya says, the normally hard edge of her voice dulled, "we still need to get off this roof."

"You have a way off," says Lucina, a touch of irritation tinting his fake pitch. "This powder is completely safe. And it's your only option."

The atmosphere changes to all business in moments. All traces of my emotional breakdown are replaced with the pressing concern of survival. You can't feel anything if you're dead, after all.

Robin stares at Freya. "I'm well aware you do not trust me, but unless you want to stay here and risk the hospitality of our fine hosts, I suggest you and the rest of us listen to Marth and take advantage of this blessing."

After a sharp nod from Chrom, Freya finally relents. "Fine. But I still do not trust any of you near milady or milord. I swear I will get to the bottom of all this."

Chrom lets out an exasperated sigh. "Always Freya the Wary. Liston and I will be fine, Freya. Michael and Robin mean us no harm, that much I know. I'm as curious as you about what's going on, but I know in my heart they're both good people."

My lips twitch downward. Am I a good person? As much as I admire Chrom for her positive qualities, she's naïve. I could be anyone, and yet she chooses to believe I'm a decent sort of person. I feel a pang of envy. I wish I could trust so easily and so entirely. Maybe it's not such a bad way to live your life, having faith that each person you meet is more likely to be inherently good than inherently evil.

Freya grumbles a bit, but we reach a consensus to use Lucina's powder to teleport into the forest, where the Risen have not yet reached or can easily see into. "Then it is settled," Lucina says in his falsetto. "Come close. The radius is not very large."

We crowd together around Lucina as he tosses a handful of dust into the air. It sprinkles down like a fine snow, and my skin tingles as each particle hits. The powder drifts down our bodies, causing us to slowly fade from view. My vision alternates between the rooftop and the heavily wooded forest, the smells of rotten flesh and fresh oak warring for dominance. Eventually, we are completely transported to the forest, leaving the Risen far behind. Unsurprisingly, Lucina vanishes the moment we realize we've made it.

"Wow… What a woman," Liston says airily.

"Got a crush there?" Chrom teases.

"No!"

I tune out their exchange. My mind is filled with tumultuous thoughts of the future. We lived. This time. I'm almost positive my presence is in part the cause for these radical changes. I can't predict anything. My foreknowledge is useless.

And that scares me.

* * *

 **Author's Note: Once again, I am blown away by the support and interest in this story. Thank you all so, so much. I write for you guys, and I hope you're enjoying this story. Since I seem to have established a small base of followers, I'd like to ask a question. Agatha. Should she remain a part of the story? I'm toying with the idea of making her a main character. But I don't want too many OCs. Anyways, let me know what you think in a review or PM! Again, thank you so much for reading!**

 **Hammerschlag- I'm glad you're still enjoying the story! Yeah, I kind of never wanted to make my SI a Robin replacement. Also, I hope this story is actually self-aware. That's part of my plan.**

 **TheUnknownUser2- It's great you think my story is funny! I'm trying very hard to balance humor and drama. I want to create a story that's worth reading.**


	4. A Friendly Forest Chat

Chapter IV: A Friendly Forest Chat

Away from the Risen and threat of immediate danger, Freya is free to interrogate me. I have no respite. Not even Chrom can stop her.

"You will explain how you know milady," Freya insists, her grip around her lance disconcertingly tight. "We go nowhere until I've learned the truth."

"I've already told you, I'd just heard rumors of a woman named Chrom who dealt with bandits and thugs and stuff. Your little group doesn't just do stuff like that and not get a reputation. So, for the thousandth time, I called out for help in desperation." Freya has been on me for the better part of an hour, a relentless chain of questions and accusations. To be fair, I'm obviously lying. But it's a good lie. A logical lie. Despite the paranoia, Freya is a rational person. She's intelligent. It's only a matter of time before she feigns acceptance and settles for what she does best: warily watching.

"Please, Freya," Chrom implores. "We have more pressing concerns right now. The longer we stay here, the more we risk those things finding us. Let Michael be. Besides, I see no reason not to believe such a reasonable explanation."

"Yes, too reasonable. Like a good excuse." She narrows her eyes at me. "But you're correct about one thing, milady. I have risked your safety long enough. We must return to the capital at once. I suggest we leave Michael and Robin behind." Oh, fuck that shit.

Liston steps up and pushes a finger into Freya's breastplate. "You should feel ashamed saying something like that. We're not leaving them. You're outnumbered here. And I hate to play this card, but Chrom and I outrank you. I'm ordering you to stop this."

Get her Liston. You go. Much like a hapless guppy, Freya's mouth opens and closes several times before any words come out. "I… Yes, milord." However dauntless, Freya is powerless when called out on her insubordination.

"Furthermore," Chrom says, cutting in. "I'd like to offer Robin a position among the Shepherds. We could use a skilled tactician and warrior."

"Milady!" Freya objects.

Chrom shoots her a precursory glare. "This is my final decision." She smiles at Robin. "Assuming you'd like to join."

Robin looks taken aback. "You would have me?"

"Of course. I'd be mad to turn away a…. person of your talents. You've shown us multiple times already how valuable you are in battle. So yes, I'd like you to join. No. I insist." Chrom extends a hand to Robin, a confident grin plastered on her face.

After a moment's hesitation, Robin clasps Chrom's hand. "I would be honored."

"You know," Chrom says, studying their handshake. "You have a man's grip."

"Do I?" Robin frees their hand after a few seconds. "Must one be a man to have a man's grip?"

Chrom leans in eagerly. "So, you're a woman then?" The anticipation of an answer seizes all of us.

"I did not say that."

"You're a man?"

"I did not say that either."

"What are you saying?!" Chrom's head seems ready to pop from her neck.

Robin smiles. "I'm not saying anything."

"ARRRGGG!" Chrom holds her face in her hands while we all sigh in exasperation. I have a distinct feeling it may be a very long time before we learn the nature of Robin's gender. Barring some rather unscrupulous spying of course.

Freya makes sure the brief levity does not last. "Milady… Let us be off. If you wish to make sufficient ground by nightfall, we must leave now."

Recovering, Chrom nods. She looks to Agatha and me. "We will escort you both to Ylisstol. You have my word that you'll arrive safely. Once we get there, I'll put you in touch with a contact of mine who can help you find work and a place to stay."

Agatha is satisfied with that plan. Why wouldn't she be? But it doesn't sit right with me. With Chrom's assistance, I can probably eke out a meager living. Maybe even find an apprenticeship as a carpenter. It's safe. It's smart. It's the kind of life most people have. But did I come here for that? Did I lose everything just to settle for something so… basic? Chrom has no reason to offer me a position in the Shepherds, but I know if I don't join them I won't be able to shake the feeling of worthlessness I have now. Will I be useful? Minimally at best. It's better than wondering about what could have been, though. It's better than not even trying to help. It's better than always waiting for something to change my life for me rather than doing it myself. I'm here through my own actions, and through my own actions I will make the most of it.

"No," I say, mustering the willpower to continue. "I want to join the Shepherds too."

The shock is evident on Chrom's face. "You know we're a group of warriors, right? That means going into battle and facing the enemy head on. You admitted yourself that you have no skill in combat." She pauses. "I don't want you to get hurt."

More like she doesn't want dead weight on the battlefield. Chrom is sincere and just, but she knows who belongs in combat and who doesn't. I have to convince her another way. "I won't fight. I can do other things," I argue, getting ready to exaggerate my abilities. "I am a woodworker by trade. I can build lots of different things. Or even repair damaged ones. And I'm good at it. Surely, you need someone like that keeping things together at the base?"

She looks pensive. "Most of our training equipment is made from wood. It's true that someone qualified maintaining and building more could be quite useful."

Yes. Yes! I'm about to seal the deal when Freya opts to join the conversation. "Milady, I would advise against this. He seems awfully desperate to join our ranks. Very suspicious."

I've had enough of Freya's shit. I'm done. "You know what? Fuck you, Freya. Fuck your attitude and fuck your inability to be a fucking decent human being." Deep inside, I know Freya isn't a bad person; she's wonderfully loyal and caring, just overly vigilant. But rage takes over. "I just want to be a part of something important for once. I'm tired of being on the sidelines while other people do great things. If that makes me a cliché, then fuck it. I want to be a Shepherd. And I'm not going to let your insecurity at being a worthwhile babysitter deter me. And by the way, Freya, it's a miracle they don't hate you. Because I definitely would and do."

My tirade earns me a gauntleted fist to the mouth. I can't tell if the metallic taste is blood or Freya's armored hand. Probably both. I hit the ground hard, head snapping back. Woman has one hell of an arm on her. Lights flitter in my eyes as I lie dazed. Freya kneels beside me, her face close. "How _dare_ you. How dare you speak to me like that." She brandishes her lance. "Do you have a death wish?"

"Woah! Woah!" Chrom takes Freya under both armpits in a firm lock. The knight struggles but can't free herself. "Calm down, Freya! Michael is not the enemy! He's just upset and stressed."

"Unhand me! Milady, please! I'm going to run this wretch through!" Freya attempts another futile maneuver.

"That's EXACTLY why I'm not letting you go!" Chrom strains to hold the writhing Freya. Liston runs over to assist, taking one side of Freya from Chrom. With both royals holding her back, she stands now absolutely no chance.

I spit blood into the grass, wiping my mouth on my sleeve. Agatha supports my back as I try to sit up. Holy fuck, that hurt. I'm not letting Freya know that, though. "Is that all you got?" I ask, blood wetting my lips.

Freya unleashes an ungodly scream in response, violently thrashing against Chrom and Liston. It's odd—and terrifying—to see a character who's usually so calm and reserved lose control like this. I must have really struck a nerve with those comments about her suitability as their protector. However, I don't regret it. She doesn't get to shit all over me at every opportunity. If I'm going to be a Shepherd, she's going to learn not to treat me like a second-class citizen. I'm sure when my emotions have evened out, I'll feel bad for this, but right now all I can think about is although I ended up on my ass, I won.

"Are you ok?" Agatha asks, her hand rubbing my back. "I'm amazed you're still conscious after that."

"I'm fine," I say, coughing out more blood. "She doesn't even hit that hard."

Agatha frowns. "Idiot."

"Hey, I never claimed not to be."

While Agatha looks me over for any other injuries, Chrom and Liston manage to placate Freya enough to release her. She still looks at me with murderous intent, but does and says nothing. Chrom walks over to me, crouching next to Agatha.

"I'll have Liston heal you in a second. But first." She flicks me in the forehead. "Don't ever do that again. Ever. The things you said… Those were way too personal. When you're a Shepherd, you need to treat everyone as a brother or sister in arms. I can't have episodes like that happening. Are we clear?"

All I hear is "when you're a Shepherd." Even after this stunt, Chrom is taking me in. Gratitude and relief overload my system. Honestly, I don't deserve to be one after that. Especially since I basically lied my way in anyways (I haven't thought far enough ahead to worry about actually doing the type of work Chrom will expect of me). To be so forgiving of a stranger… Chrom is truly a better person than I will ever be.

"So… I'm a Shepherd now?" I ask tentatively, focusing on the only positive thing she said.

Chrom sighs. "Yes. We can use your skillset. Just don't antagonize anyone anymore."

"She antagonized me first."

"That may be true, but clearly things went too far." Chrom stands and turns back to Freya. "Can I trust you not to do anything like this again?"

Silence.

"Freya."

"Yes, milady." The response is cold, an agreement bound only by the depth of Freya's loyalty to her liege. I have no doubt that she will make my life a living hell. After all, if she can't sway Chrom's mind, she can always try to sway mine. Who wants to be a Shepherd with someone constantly targeting them?

I do. That's who.

"So…" Robin begins. "Is this what being a Shepherd is like?"

Five pairs of eyes hone in on Robin. Then Liston laughs. Chrom soon joins in as well. Agatha chuckles a bit. Even I crack a small smile. Only Freya is entirely unamused. The sheer absurdity of the day, of what just happened, all of it was summed up in Robin's comment. No one is laughing because of Freya and me fighting. They're laughing because you just have to after a day like this. When the world literally burns around you, how else do you cope? It's a crazy, fucked up situation, but we're all alive, and laughing at some silly remark shows that better than anything else.

It takes a while for the laughter to die down. Chrom strides over and claps Robin on the shoulder. "Consider this an initiation of sorts," she chortles. "But no, life as a Shepherd is much more… harmonious than this."

"Being in the Shepherds is like being a part of a big family," Liston chimes in. "Except there's a lot more swords and axes and taking care of bad guys. There's less punching each other in the face."

Robin shakes their head and laughs. "I should hope so. Not to be rude, but I'm quite glad it wasn't me on the end of Freya's fist."

I suspect the three of them could have carried on lightheartedly all day if the smell of rancid flesh did not just waft through.

"Those things are close," Chrom says, hand resting on Falchion's pommel. "We really have wasted enough time here. Let's move."

Chrom and Agatha help me to my feet, and our group makes haste as we trek through the forest. The undergrowth slows our progress, but dogged determination keeps us traveling at a steady pace. Through the trees, sunlight filters through at a low angle, telling me the sun is about to meet the horizon. Had we really spent so much time in the forest? Or had the period of waiting on the rooftop been longer than I'd thought? Either way, I am not surprised. This has been a long day, the longest of my life. My whole body aches, but I cannot help but feel the thrill of satisfaction, of victory. I'm a Shepherd. I somehow went from a sniveling mess of cow shit to running through the forest with Chrom and Co. And I did it myself. I found Southtown. I saved Agatha. I convinced Chrom to let me join. Sure, a lot of luck played a part, but I've never been more proud of myself.

Our brisk speed leads us out of the forest just as the bottom half of the sun sinks out of view, turning the sky a brilliant amber. Ahead is a cobblestone road winding over and around the hills. The way to Ylisstol.

"There is it is," Chrom says, echoing my thoughts. "The road into Ylisstol. If we follow it north, we should arrive by midday tomorrow. We ought to find a safe place to camp for the night."

I scan the countryside, scowling at the lack of cover. Perhaps the best option is to set up camp on the edge of the forest. The Risen will have tremendous difficultly moving through all that brush, and we will be concealed from any that might be wandering among the hills at night. I decide to voice my opinion.

"We should camp in the forest. We're far enough away from those things for it to be safe now. And we can sleep in shifts."

Chrom nods, tucking a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. "That's a sound idea. We should be safe for—"

The thundering of hooves galloping down the road causes Chrom to break off. Goddamn Law of Interrupting Catastrophe. A cavalier with crimson armor and equally crimson hair barrels down the road, a flamboyant looking woman with sky blue hair clinging for dear life behind him. Sully and Virion. Cresting a hill a few hundred yards behind them is a swarm of Risen, a purple wave of miasmatic death. Upon sighting us, Sully steers his horse in our direction, pulling up just short of Chrom.

"Thank the gods I've found you!" he exclaims, voice deep and masculine. Looks like Sully finally got to be the man we all mistook her for. I kid. But seriously.

"Sullivan? What's going on?" Chrom demands. "Who is that with you?"

"I am Virginie, the one and only! How blessed are you to be in my—"

"Can it, Ruffles!" Sullivan snaps, turning back to Chrom. "I picked this one up a ways back. I regret everything. But more importantly, there are these things… Gods, they're horrible."

"We know," Chrom says grimly. "They destroyed Southtown."

"They what?! It's gone?" Sullivan's expression morphs into a truly intimidating mask of anger. "Bastards!"

"There's nothing that can be done now. We need to get to the capital to warn the Exalt," Chrom says. "But it looks like the way is blocked."

The tide of Risen fully comes into view. At least a hundred. Way too many to fight and hope to win. The only thing to do is retreat back into the forest, but even then they've seen us and will hunt us down. I glance at Robin. Come on you genius! Think of something!

Chrom seems to be having similar thoughts. "Robin, quick! We need a plan."

Robin rubs their temples, and I can practically see the gears turning. "Let's see… Open field of hills…. Can't make a stand there…. Too many… No options for retreat or advancement… This is bad," Robin finally declares.

"Yeah, no shit!" I say, nervous breathing beginning to take over as the Risen inch closer. "Just use that big brain of yours, smart stuff!"

It's another minute before Robin speaks, all of us teetering on the edge as we await what our tactician has to say. "I have a plan," they declare.

A collective exhaling emits from the group. "Great! What is it?" Chrom asks. "How do we get out of this?"

Robin's lips curve downwards. "You won't like it."

"Doesn't matter," I urge. "Out with it!"

"We lure them into the forest. All of them." They say, pausing as if the rest is obvious.

"And?" we all ask.

Robin pulls out their thunder tome. "We set it on fire."

 **Author's Note: Again, thank you all for the incredible response. Since I first posted a week ago, this story has been viewed over 700 times. That's amazing to me. Thank you all for your interest, your follows, your favorites, and your reviews. I am honored to write this story for you all. The next chapter will be out soon as well. Now, for my review responses!**

 **Clutchvm- I'm glad you're reading the story and enjoying! Trust me, OCs aren't going to be a problem! There won't be many at all.**

 **Hammerschlag- Thank you for consistently reviewing! I'm glad you liked male Lucina! Also yes, I think I will keep Agatha as well. She'll make for a good side character. But that's it for OCs (unless there's an OC child~~~~)**

 **Past Witness- I'm so happy you think this is a refreshing take on the genre. That's exactly what I'm going for!**


	5. Trial by Fire

Chapter V: Trial by Fire

* * *

"So, let me get this straight," Chrom says, clarifying the plan for the third time. "You use the thunder tome to set fire to the trees, striking them like a bolt of lightning. While we're in the forest. With those undead monsters?"

"Precisely." Robin smiles wickedly.

"While we're in the forest," Chrom repeats.

"That's correct."

"This is madness."

"This," Robin gestures to their tome, the trees, and the approaching Risen in one smooth motion, "is our only chance."

Chrom peers around Robin at the Risen, their shambling carcasses growing ever nearer. "Then I suppose we should get on with it.

"Let's," Sullivan says gruffly, pulling on his horse's reins. "I'll ride out and make sure they follow us into the right spot." He eyes Virginie, who dismounted a while ago. "You coming, Ruffles? I could use that bow of yours to keep them at a distance."

Virginie sighs in dramatic fashion, whipping her long hair back and striking what she thinks is an elegant pose. "How can I say no to such a paragon of masculinity? The Archest of Archers is at your service."

Flushing, Sullivan shifts uncomfortably. "Paragon of… Just shut up and get on the horse, woman!" Virginie complies with the most dignified undignified mounting of a horse I've ever seen. A sight to behold, for sure.

She pulls her bow from her back, notching an arrow and holding it low, undrawn. "Onward, my brave knight! Together we shall make these foul creatures rue the day!"

Sullivan grunts, a sound of immense displeasure. I don't blame him, the way she brazenly presses her body into his back. Virion as a woman will give me nightmares, that much I know. Hell, let's be real. Plain old Virion probably would too.

After hearing the OK from Robin, the pair race away, Virginie firing some preliminary arrows into the horde. I see a couple Risen evaporate into mist. Nice shots. The rest of us turn to Robin for further instruction.

"Alright," they say, taking up a commanding stance. "Chrom, Freya, and I will hold the front. Michael, Agatha, and Liston will stay behind in the forest since they're unarmed and unsuited for combat. The three of us will allow the monsters to get close to the forest after Sullivan and Virginie draw them in. We'll assist in the event sustained fighting comes to pass. Once the things are following us into the forest we will need to keep moving but stay close enough to make sure every single one of them enters. It'll be dangerous. Then I'll strike the trees with thunder and trap the monsters in the resulting fire. And then we run." Robin takes a breath. "All clear?"

There's a murmur of agreement amongst the group. I speak up. "And if we can't get out?" The sickening thought of burning alive worms its way into my mind.

"We'll make it out, Michael," Chrom assures me, her eyes gleaming with resolve.

I nod, unsure but willing to remain hopeful. Becoming a crispy critter isn't on my agenda this evening. I hear the words of Smokey Bear: "Only you can prevent forest fires." Except, in this situation, we're starting one. I think good ole Smokey would understand the need to bend the rules to fry some undead baddies.

In the distance, Sullivan and Virginie are baiting the Risen. Sullivan uses hit and run tactics while Virginie peppers them with arrows. Everything seems to be going well until a stray Risen gets a little too close and hamstrings Sullivan's horse. He and Virginie go down, the latter's yelp easy to hear even a hundred yards away. Agatha gasps. Chrom is sprinting at full speed towards the downed pair. Sullivan keeps the Risen at bay but only just. He takes a few glancing blows, deflected partially with his lance tip. More and more Risen surround him. He backpedals, Virginie by his side, firing arrows when she can and thumping Risen with the bow when she can't. Freya and Robin dash after Chrom, the three of them arriving in time to provide Sullivan and Virginie some dire support. It's now five warriors versus one hundred. Impossible odds. If they don't break free soon, they'll be overwhelmed. Valiant they may be, but even heroes fall.

I fix Liston with an urgent look. "We have to do something. They aren't going to make it if this keeps up." Honest to God terror pumps in my veins. What can we do? We can't fight. Or at least I can't. I don't even have a weapon.

Liston clutches his staff, squeezing it as if a solution might come out. "I know, but what?! This… this is really bad." He trembles, anxiety wrought all over his person.

I do a 360 in desperation. There's nothing. There's absolutely noth—wait. The horse. Sullivan's horse is limping away from the scene of battle, dragging its wounded leg. I know what to do. It's cruel, but it's the only way.

"Liston," I say, moving forward. "Follow me. We're going to buy them time to escape."

"How?" he asks, pulling alongside me.

"Sullivan's horse. It's a goner anyways. If we use it to distract the Risen, make them attack it instead, we can give Chrom and the others a chance to run."

Liston blanches. "That's horrible! But… but I can't see another way."

"What are you two doing?" Agatha trails behind us, wide eyed and panicking. "Don't go out there!"

I turn to her. "We have to. We can't let them die. Not when there's something, anything, we can do." I decide to appeal to more pragmatic reasoning as well. "We also need them. They die, we die."

"T-Then I'm coming too!" she says, catching up.

Liston and I both acknowledge her decision with firm nods. I explain the plan to Agatha as well, and we march away towards the horse. It feels wrong to say, but I've always been good with animals. I love them, and they love me. Animals naturally take to me, like they sense I care and will do nothing to hurt them. My friend had a cat who hated everyone. Even him. Except when I came over, that cat would purr constantly, rubbing against me and settling into my lap. It baffled his family, but I never thought anything of it. Animals just like me. So, using that affinity here to literally lead this horse to the slaughter… I feel dirty. But what must be done must be done.

I lure the horse to me with gentle coos. It whines softly, blood oozing from the gash on its leg. I find a small comfort knowing this horse would need to be put down regardless. I just wish the method was more humane. With some coaxing and kind words, I lead the horse slowly toward the battle site, staying squarely in the horse's field of vision so the fighting doesn't spook it away. The fact this horse is battle trained probably helps; a normal farm horse would have tried to bolt ages ago.

Chrom notices us working with the horse. "What the?" She blocks an axe with Falchion, her attention divided between the Risen and our actions. "Liston, take them and get out of here! This is no place—"

"Chrom, shut up!" I toss the words over my shoulder and face the horse again. "There, there. Don't worry about that. Just keep following me. Everything is all right." A sick feeling wells up inside me. Poor animal. I can tell this is going to eat at me for a long time, using the horse as a sacrifice like this.

Steeling myself, I shift to the side, slapping the horse on the haunches. It crashes into the Risen, a high scream splitting the air as it uses its bad leg. To gruesome effect, the plan works perfectly. The Risen slice and stab the horse, their attention diverted by the beast careening into their ranks. "Move! Now!" I shout to Chrom, who guides the others in a withdrawal. Though they don't remain satiated on the horse for long, the lapse allows our party to retreat towards the forest after a breakneck dash. Once they've minced the horse—Jesus, that was brutal—the Risen focus on staggering after us again. We stand at the forest's edge, taunting and whistling. Slowly, we back into the woods, just far enough the once the Risen close the gap we can safely use the thick underbrush to out maneuver them. Which is exactly what happens. The Risen funnel into the forest, and we spread out to make sure we control the direction of their movement. Once the last Risen enters the woods, Robin signals that they are about to start the fire.

If you've never seen a forest fire, you can't really be prepared for just how quickly it engulfs the area. As Robin blasts trees in a circular pattern around the Risen, fire licks at the brush, igniting the dry plant fiber. Risen screech as their flesh burns. They try to get away, but Robin makes sure the ring of fire has no gaps, no room for escape. The smell of seared, decaying tissue fills the air. Imagine the worst thing you've ever smelled. For me, it was a maggot infested pound of meat left in an old refrigerator. Multiply that by about fifty and you've got cooked Risen. Their violet mist mingles with the smoke to create a toxic haze. I cough, trying to breath in some clean air through my shirt. It doesn't work.

Considering we positioned ourselves outside the flaming circle, exiting the forest is actually quite straightforward. I pant, sucking in the less polluted air. The Risen roar, an unsettling sound lifting above the crackling of burning wood. The others start emerging from the forest as well, first Robin, followed by Sullivan and Freya. Agatha and Liston soon join them with Virginie tagging along. Only Chrom remains. We wait. We wait some more. Chrom still doesn't show. Nervous impatience set in.

"Where is milady?" Freya asks, her voice an octave higher than usual. "I saw her not moments ago… She was right behind me…"

I watch the blaze for any sign of movement. Chrom isn't coming. I can feel it. "We have to go back in after her," I say, already walking towards the inferno.

"Yes," Freya says, joining me. "Hold on, milady. I'm coming." For once, we agree on something. Amazing.

"Wait a minute! You're not going in there without me," Liston says, barging into us. "That's my sister in there. No way am I standing around when she needs help."

"The rest of us will stay here in case any of those things make it out," Robin says, looking torn. It must go against every fiber of their being not to rush in and save the day. But they're wise to ensure absolutely no Risen survive this. Freya, Liston, and I give our understanding before plunging into the fire. Scorching heat laps at my skin, and I pull my shirt over my mouth to prevent as much smoke inhalation as possible. Visibility is shit in here. What isn't burning is obscured by purple smoke; I can barely see Liston or Freya let alone any sign of Chrom.

"Milady!" Freya cries out. "Where are you?!"

"Chrom! Chrom! Please! Chrom!" Liston yells, following suit.

I try to retrace my steps from before the fire started, but it's impossible. Nothing looks the same anymore. I feel my heart pounding. Why did I even come in here? Risking my life for someone I just met? That's insane. But… I know the answer. Chrom would do the same for me. She would never let me die in this forest. Before I asked to join the Shepherds, she promised to see Agatha and me safely to Ylisstol. And I know Chrom to be the type of woman who never goes back on her word. I owe her. I owe her more than a thank you or a beer at the pub. I owe her my life. And fuck it all if I'm not going to make good on that debt.

As if some primordial deity—Naga perhaps—hears my thoughts, I see Chrom. Pinned under a fallen log, her unconscious body is close to being swallowed up by flames. "Freya! Liston!" I shout. "I found her! Come quick! She's trapped!"

Almost immediately, they both appear on my right. "Oh, thank the gods! Milady! The fire has not yet reached her. We must move this trunk," she says, already attempting to lift it. The heavy log doesn't budge. Liston and I lend ourselves to the cause. Gradually, the tree trunk rises from the ground. When we've cleared enough space to pull Chrom out, I turn to Freya and Liston.

"Can you two hold this while I crawl in to get her?"

They both give strained nods. I waste no time in ducking under the log and grabbing Chrom. With her armor on, she weighs a lot more than I anticipate. Still, I drag her out, trying my best not to leave her with too many scratches and bruises. I check her breathing. Slow but there. I motion for Freya and Liston to drop the log, which they do promptly. Freya helps me get Chrom to her feet, and we support her weight between the two of us. Liston provides some moral support, I suppose, placing a hand on Chrom's back, his fingers clinging at her shirt. The three of us escort Chrom out of the forest, arriving just as Sullivan drives his lance through a Risen's chest. Guess some people staying behind really was a clever idea.

Upon seeing us, Robin runs over, nearly tripping. "Was she harmed? She looks mostly OK…"

Freya and I let Chrom to the ground, Freya nursing her head into the grass. I dip my head at Robin. "No, she wasn't. Luckily. We found her before the fire reached her." Who knows how much smoke she breathed in though?

Robin sighs. "Good… good. Where was she?"

"Trapped under a log," I reply. "Took all three of us to get it off her. Wouldn't want to repeat it again."

"We had our fair share of action here as well."

"I saw that," I say, looking at Sullivan. "Was that the only one."

"No," the red knight says. "The last of three."

"Let's hope they're all dead now. Well, more dead," I say, frowning.

"Aye," Sullivan says flatly.

Freya begins to shake Chrom. "Milady? Milady, please wake up!"

"What's wrong, Freya? Did something happen?" I ask, worry sprouting.

"She's not breathing anymore!" Freya exclaims, now violently shaking Chrom. "Milady, please!"

Liston launches into action, healing staff angled at Chrom. After a moment, I expect to see the rise and fall of Chrom's chest, indicating the healing magic took effect. I don't. Liston's brows knit, concentration marring his youthful features. "Why won't it work?" he says, thrusting the staff at Chrom, the orb nearly touching her.

I lean down, placing an ear to the left side of Chrom's chest. Nothing. No pulse. I press two fingers underneath her chin. Again, nothing. Fuck. Oh fuck. "Her heart stopped."

"What?" Liston says in dismay. "A-A healing staff doesn't work without a heartbeat."

Well, that's real fucking useful. I stare at Chrom. I know what I need to do. CPR. I've never done it on a person who required it. Fortunately, I do know how, though. When I was fourteen, a trainer at the YMCA told me I was using the bench press machine all wrong. What followed was a full five-week training course that included CPR certification. I've never been more happy about sucking at working out than right now.

"Move," I say roughly, edging Freya and Liston out of the way. "I can help." I strip Chrom's pauldron off, giving me better access. Freya tries to push me back.

"What are you doing?" she snarls. "Stay away from her!"

I swat her away. "Do you want Chrom to live?"

"What?"

"Do you want Chrom to fucking live?"

"Yes. Yes, of course!" she says frantically.

"Then move. I know what I'm doing." I don't wait for a reply, positioning myself above Chrom, hands interlocked on top of one another in the middle of Chrom's chest. I square my shoulders and make sure they're directly above my hands, elbows straight. Freya makes no further protests, simply watching helplessly. I take a deep breath and press down hard, using my body weight. Most people don't know that effective CPR has to be rough. Really rough. Sometimes, you might even crack the sternum or a rib. I don't feel that happen here, thank God, but I make sure I'm doing this right. I repeat the steps in my head. Thirty chest compressions. Open the airway. Two rescue breaths. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. I go through the procedure on Chrom again and again. Finally, she gasps on the 132nd chest compression. You're damn right I kept count.

"MILADY!" Freya gushes, reaching out to stroke Chrom's hair. "You're alive! Oh, Naga above!"

Liston just cries while everyone else breathes a massive sigh of relief. I fall backwards onto the grass, puffing like I'd completed the world's longest race. I might as well have. I fucking did it. I saved Chrom. Thank you. Thank you, stupid fourteen-year-old self. Thank you for failing miserably at trying to bench your own weight. And thank you for actually showing up to the training course. I owe you one, buddy.

"Wha… What happened? Last thing I remember… I was running… And then this." Chrom says, wheezing, followed by a fit of coughing. Liston points his healing staff—still crying—this time getting results as Chrom's coughing ceases, and some of the color returns to her skin.

"You were knocked unconscious by a falling tree," Liston supplies, stowing the staff back in its side holster. "When you didn't come out of the forest, we came and found you. You seemed OK, just knocked out but…." He trails off.

"Your heart stopped," I say, sitting up.

"How… How did you bring me back?" She must know that healing staffs don't work on a person without a pulse.

"Michael did." Freya leans back, staring at the grass. "He… saved you."

"What? You did?" Chrom stares at me, and I'm slightly offended by the disbelief in her eyes.

"Yeah. I did. CPR."

"What is CPR?" she asks.

"Cardiopulmonary Resuscitation. It's a method of getting a person's heart to start again, or at least keeping them alive until…" I can't finish that sentence. Paramedics and ambulances and modern medicine. "Well, it just gets the heart beating again."

"Never heard of it… Maybe Miro has," she says thoughtfully. Must be Miriel. "At any rate… Thank you. Truly. I owe you my life."

I shake my head. "No, I'd have to save you a few more times for us to be even."

"Once is enough. You only have one life," she counters.

Liston butts in, having finished his spat of crying. "Chrom! I'm so happy you're OK! Don't ever do that to me again!" He wraps Chrom in a tight embrace before looking over at me. "And you! Thank you! Thank you so much! You have to teach me how you did that. A healer like me should know something that important."

I eye him. "Even the mouth to mouth part?"

He sports a furious blush. "I think you can just tell me about that part."

I laugh. "Don't worry, man. I don't want to kiss you."

To my surprise, Chrom blushes as well. "The what?"

"Mouth to mouth. In CPR you have to 'breathe' for your patient," I explain rapidly. "It's not a real kiss."

"Oh. I see." She looks away, still blushing. Fuck. I'm blushing now too. Goddammit.

"Ah, the sweet blossoming of love, like a divine rose rising from the spring earth," Virginie says loftily. "What a beauteous pair—"

"If you don't shut the fuck up right now, I WILL throw you into the fire," I threaten.

Virginie gulps. That's right. You better be afraid.

If Chrom and I could be any more red, we'd be Sullivan's armor. However, Robin comes in with the clutch save. "Michael only did what was necessary. Nothing embarrassing about that. Especially in a matter of life and death."

"Yes. That. Exactly," I say, nodding furiously. Chrom seems more than happy with that as well.

The awkwardness fades after a while. Our group basks in the knowledge that we beat the odds and survived. We have a whole burning forest to show for it. As twilight melds into darkness, we watch the flames tease the sky. Robin decides we should camp on the highest hill, an opinion we all share. I'm told that we leave at dawn, but I'm restless so I take first watch.

Freya walks over to me, obviously uncomfortable. "I'm sorry. For everything. I can never repay you for tonight."

Her sudden attitude change floors me. "I… uh… It's ok. I'm sorry too. For the things I said about you."

"It is forgiven." She stands off-balance, her normally perfect posture betrayed by nervousness. "We're still not friends, though. I hope you know that."

I smile. "Like I'd want to be."

She smiles back. "Then we're in agreement." Freya walks away after a fleeting moment where she looks as if she wants to say something else. "Goodnight."

"Night," I say, but her back is already turned.

Freya, you are one complicated person. I chuckle to myself as I settle down, gazing off into the darkness. Perhaps the Shepherds will feel like home after all. I know I'm never going back to mine. Beating the game? That's bullshit. You don't "beat" reality. This is it. This is my life now. I look back over at the sleeping forms of my new companions. What did Chrom say? "You will find more." Huh. Maybe. Maybe I will.

* * *

 **Author's Note: Yet again, thank you for your continued support of this story. We've now reached over 1000 views. When I posted this story a little over a week ago, I never expected this kind of response. The follows, the favorites, and the reviews have all been a massive encouragement to keep writing. So much so that I've written almost 20000 words this week. I've never written so much in my life in such a short time period. Please keep enjoying this wacky fic! Now, review response!**

 **Hammerschlag- Your reviews are a massive boost to my confidence, and I thank you. The fact that you've now favorited my story warms my heart. I'm glad I could sway you to the gender bender dark side! Haha!**

 **Carcassi- I'm so glad you find this story original, since that's one of my main goals. Part of the reason I chose to genderbend this fic was because I'd never really seen it done in Fire Emblem before. Anyways, thanks a bunch for your review! I hope you keep reading!**

 **Serendipidous- It's great to see my story being something you can use to relax. That makes me happy. About time lines: I think it's safe for me to say without revealing too much that Michael's presence is derailing things. However, obviously that doesn't explain why M!Lucina isn't surprised by the Risen overrunning Southtown. Soooo, clearly other things are afoot. But you'll have to read more to find out~~~**


	6. Ylisstol

Chapter VI: Ylisstol

* * *

Dawn breaks earlier than I'd like. A soft morning sun turns the hills to mounds of emerald, the dew sparkling as if every blade of grass is a precious gemstone. If it weren't for the fact I'm cold, hungry, tired, and sore beyond description, I might even pause to admire the scenery. Of course, the blackened and ash covered forest puts a bit of a damper on the sight. Looks like the fire ran its course, laying waste to the entire swathe of woods. At least it's not a large portion of forest. I remember seeing about the wildfires in Montana on the news, how they blazed for weeks. Thankfully, the Ylissean countryside seems to be more hill than tree. Still, it's sad to see a once proud piece of nature reduced to something so barren.

"Wakey, wakey, Mikey, Mikey!" a godawful high voice bleats in my ear. Liston shakes my shoulders as I lie on the ground trying to avoid moving yet.

"Jesus, I'm up!" I snap, turning my neck and feeling it crack from the stiffness. "Let me wake up in peace, you demon."

He sits back, looking unapologetic. "What's Jesus?" he asks.

I sigh. "Something you say when annoying people won't let you sleep in," I respond blandly.

Liston feigns hurt. "Me? Annoying? How could you?"

"Liston."

"What?"

"Shut up."

"Why?"

"Your voice is cancer."

"What's cancer?"

"You."

I roll over and push myself off the ground while Liston laughs, apparently enjoying my suffering. Sitting up, I see the others are already mobile and preparing to move out. Freya especially. Despite yesterday's events, her appearance is immaculate and looks as if she'd spent the night in a five-star resort and not the hard, shitty ground. Even Agatha, who I assume isn't as rough and tumble as the rest of them, seems alert and ready for the day. Guess I'm just destined to be less suited for extreme camping than my medieval peers.

"You ready to move out, Michael?" Chrom asks, extending a generous hand to help me up. I gratefully accept.

I yawn. "I suppose so. Please tell me someone has some food. I'm starving."

Chrom shakes her head. "Sorry. When patrolling we usually hunt for food," she explains as her stomach growls. "Aha… I could go for something to eat myself."

"Do we have time for that? Hunting, I mean." I will gladly eat bear if it means food.

"I'm afraid not," she says, frowning. "We need to get to the capital as soon as we can to bring word of Southtown's destruction and these monsters roaming about. But don't worry; Ylisstol will be within sight by noon. We can eat when we arrive."

"Fine," I grumble. "But we better have a damn feast."

Chrom laughs. "There'll be plenty of food, I assure you." She leans in conspiratorially. "One of the Shepherds is an excellent cook."

Stahl, perhaps? Does having an enormous appetite make one a better cook? "Brilliant," I say, smiling as I imagine a full meal.

She returns the smile and pats me on the shoulder. "Now, come on. We've got ground to cover."

The journey to Ylisstol is thankfully uneventful. No Risen. No fires. No bandits or bloodthirsty highwaymen. After the shit we've been through, we've earned a respite from tragic misfortune. I'm thankful for the road as well, appreciating the ease of travel over the difficult slog the forest offered. The only downsides are the copious walking and Virginie's insufferable play by play. With her around, you'd think every pebble and stone is worthy of an epic poem, not to forget the fact she constantly harasses Sullivan with proposals and odes to his ruggedness. Does the woman have no shame? Honestly. To Sullivan's credit, he only threatens her a couple times. Though probably because she seems to kind of like it. I attempt to distract myself by thinking about why exactly things have gone so haywire. Not the most pleasant series of thoughts, but it beats listening to Virginie.

Why is nothing playing out the way it should? Things are happening that never occurred in the games, or at least happening in ways they shouldn't. Lucina's actions trouble me the most. He seemed unsurprised by the changes, only commenting that he didn't expect to have to rescue us. That tells me most of this is how he thinks it should be, minus me. Clearly, I'm having some effect, but the big changes… That's something else. And why is everyone gender swapped? It's like I fell into the wrong version of Awakening. There must be an explanation. I haven't the faintest idea what, but something caused this.

Thinking about how everyone is the opposite gender makes me look at Chrom. They all have different names too. Except Chrom—and Robin of course. I have a hunch, so I bring myself up alongside her. "So, Chrom," I begin. "Chrom. That's an interesting name."

She gives me a quizzical look. "Um… sure."

I press on. "No offense, but it doesn't really feel like a woman's name… Is it short for something?"

Chrom stumbles and looks away. "Er, no. It's my name. Yeah. The whole thing."

Liston chuckles, nudging his sister. "Come on. Tell him, Chrom. He's not gonna laugh."

"Liston!" she protests, clearly miffed. "Ugh. Fine." She fixes me with a glare. "Do not laugh."

"I promise not to," I swear, hoping that it's not anything too embarrassingly bad.

"Chromaralina." She refuses to make eye contact.

I remain stone-faced. "Yeah, Chrom is way better."

She whips around, indignant. "Hey! You promised!"

"I'm not laughing," I point out. "Besides, it's not _that_ bad."

"But it's still bad."

I shake my head. "It's not. It's unique. Does it really bother you that much?"

She sighs. "It just doesn't sound like me. That's a name for a girl who wanders around in silly dresses with ridiculous hair."

"You have a point," I agree. Chromaralina is a mouthful anyways. "Chrom it is."

"Thanks," she says. "Can we maybe not bring this up again?" She fidgets.

"You got it." I give her an overly serious salute, to which she rolls her eyes.

We relax into comfortable silence, and I catch myself smiling. This is the only time I've felt something akin to contentment since arriving. To be fair, ninety percent of my time has been spent running for my life, but still. It's encouraging to think these people, even obnoxious ones like Virginie, could give me a sense of belonging. Maybe not yet, but looking at Chrom and Liston and Robin, I feel the sensation growing. It's an infectious warmth, an ember in my core telling me not to give up hope, not to give up on happiness. I suppose the only good part about losing everything is that I now have everything to gain.

Almost enjoying the walking now, I hold a steady pace, Chrom and the others at my side. Hours pass, and finally it comes into view: Ylisstol. The games give you glimpses, snippets of what the capital looks like, but really seeing it is another experience entirely. I know everyone says that. Everyone describes seeing something you've only read about or seen pictures of like that. But it's true. Ylisstol is, to put it simply, beautiful. It's a dream from a childhood fantasy, the city we've all imagined living in—one way or another. Tan walls climb a sloping hillside, as if the Ylisstol is resting on its quest to the summit. Little buildings and houses clutter the interior, their roofs a myriad of colors, a painter's palette of a city. But the jewel of Ylisstol is the palace sitting in refined stillness at the top of the hill. To say it is the most wonderous thing I've ever seen is too base a description. Turrets and towers decorate its bulk, white stone capped with royal blue. Arches gracefully curve across its walls, massive banners with the Exalted Brand flapping in the wind. Even at this distance, I can tell designs are carved into the stone. I don't have to be near them to know they are glorious. The palace speaks through the stone, a whisper of ages past, all of which were watched over by this castle of supreme dignity.

"Wow," Robin says. Yeah, that about sums it up.

"Believe me," Chrom says, her voice affectionate. "Having seen it thousands of times, it still never fails to take my breath away or make my heart beat a little faster."

"There's a reason why this continent is called Ylisse. And you are looking at it." Freya's expression is one of admiration and pride.

Agatha sways a little beside me. "I've lived my whole life only a little over a day south of here, and I never knew it was so incredible." She looks at me. "Have you ever been to the capital before, Mike?"

"No," I say, rubbing my thumb along my index finger. "I don't feel like I've ever been anywhere right now."

Agatha looks at me a little curiously. "Where are you from, Mike? You never mentioned it. Not Southtown, obviously."

Oh, the dreaded question. Honestly, I'm not sure how Freya hasn't asked it already. I'm just glad none of them, save Agatha, saw me in my original clothes. The more questions I can avoid, the better. However, this question seems hard to dodge. I'll need to concoct a believable lie. Well, relatively believable. Except Freya, these people all believe Robin has amnesia, which—while true—is totally crazy.

"Yes, Michael. Where _are_ you from?" Freya asks, latching onto the opportunity.

"Ylisse," I say, not missing a beat. "A small village to the west."

"Where you were a woodworker?" Freya asks dubiously.

"Yes," I reply. "My uncle taught me." Only half a lie. I worked in sales on Earth, but my uncle really did teach me everything I know about woodworking.

"And what was this village called?" Freya, folds her arms across her chest.

I hesitate. "Too small to have a name. We just called it 'the village.'"

"Hmmm."

Chrom waves a hand between us. "Freya, enough with the interrogation. You know just as well as I do most small villages don't have names."

Freya gives me one last look of skepticism. "As you wish, milady."

We may be on better terms than we originally began, but I know Freya isn't letting her guard down. Even if she thinks I'm no longer a danger to Chrom or Liston, it's in her nature to be untrusting. You don't earn a moniker like "The Wary" by being, well, Chrom.

"Don't worry," Agatha says soothingly. "I believe you."

I nod my thanks. Great, now I feel bad about lying. There's no way around it, though. The truth is not an option. When does telling everyone you got sucked into this world through a computer ever go well? Talk about making people wary of you. Crazy is hard to trust. Though maybe Chrom might still manage. He does recruit Tharja and Henry after all.

Our group continues up the road, Ylisstol becoming more detailed as we approach. Standing at the gates, it's hard not to appreciate the height of these walls. Must be easily over fifty feet tall. I catch Agatha almost fall over trying to look up at the top. She smiles sheepishly and hides her face. I try not to laugh for her sake, but fail to keep a couple chuckles out. Fortunately for her, I seem to be the only one who notices.

The guards at the gate don't even bother to check us over. We're allowed straight through. I decide to take the chance to act confused. I'm not supposed to know Chrom and Liston are royalty after all.

"Awfully lax security for a city with such huge walls," I comment, playing up a puzzled tone.

Chrom and Liston both laugh. "Let's just say the guards know we aren't a threat," Chrom says, still laughing as if it's a private joke. Which it would be, but I'm in on it too. I look to Robin, who is surprisingly nodding.

"Makes sense. The guards would be aware of a group like the Shepherds," Robin says musingly.

Oh. That's… logical. Now I just seem stupid. Sullivan gives me a hearty punch in the shoulder. Ow. "We might as well be guards ourselves! Ha!" he rumbles.

We enter the city, me feeling rather buffoonish after my attempt to enhance my act. I push the embarrassment away, focusing on the lively streets of Ylisstol. Everywhere I look, there's a shop or vendor, a merchant peddling trinkets or clothes or food. Oh God, the food. It smells amazing. My mouth waters as we pass a man selling kebabs of meat, the aroma nearly intoxicating.

Chrom sees me eyeing the kebabs greedily. To be fair, she looks just as ravenous. "I'll buy us some," she says, pulling out a fat pouch of coins. She purchases a round for everyone, distributing the kebabs. I bite into mine almost while it's still in Chrom's hand. Delicious. I have no idea what kind of meat it is, but I don't care. I finish the kebab in seconds, pleased the edge is taken off my hunger. Beside me, Chrom munches away. Robin as well. Both have practically zero manners. I guess some things don't change.

As we walk through the streets, I keep waiting for Emmeryn show up, for the scripted dialogue to kick in. It doesn't happen. Another difference. It makes me uneasy, not being able to anticipate what's next. However, it seems events still happen, just differently. Case in point, cue Robin asking why we're headed to the palace.

"If I'm not mistaken, this must be the ruler's residence, correct? It is a grand structure. But why are we here? To request an audience? Can you do that as Shepherds?" Robin says, studying the intricate, looping designs etched into a pair of marble pillars.

Liston shrugs. "We can do a lot of things, considering we live here."

"Ah, yes, it must be a very nice place to—wait. What? You… live here? Does that mean…" Robin trails off, a dawning look of horror emerging.

"Yep! Chrom and I are part of the Exalted family!" he says, smiling brightly. Robin and Agatha both freak. I do my best doubletake, throwing in a gasp for good measure. Pretty solid, if I do say so myself.

"C-Chrom… I mean, Princess Chrom! My Lady! Forgive my dreadful manners. And you too, Prince Liston!" Robin stutters. There's the dialogue. Still a bit different though.

Liston snorts while Chrom waves a dismissive hand. "Just Chrom is fine. I've never been much for formalities."

Agatha is too busy tripping over herself trying to curtsey to hear Chrom's words. "Oh gods! I'm so embarrassed! Please, accept my apologies, your highnesses!"

I bow deeply. "Mine as well!" Jeez, this is tedious.

"Guys, it's OK. Speak to me as you have been. If I'd minded, I would have said something, no?" Chrom sighs, running her fingers through her shoulder-length hair. "Now, come on. We have to meet Emmeryn."

Emmeryn? Not Emmett or some other male version? Emmeryn is far too feminine sounding to be a unisex name. She must be the same. Why though? It makes no sense. Well, normally it would, but not when everything else is abnormal.

Agatha interrupts my thoughts. "Lady Emmeryn? The Exalt? We're meeting the Exalt?! Oh, no, no, no, no, no! I can't do that!"

Liston gives her a thumbs up. "Yes, you can. Don't worry. Emm is very kind. You'll be fine."

"I think I'm gonna faint," Agatha says, her knees wobbling. She takes a few steadying breaths, composing herself. "OK… I'm OK."

"Are you sure?" Chrom asks, her lips settled into a frown.

Agatha nods. "Y-Yes. As much as I can be."

Sullivan taps Chrom on the shoulder. "I'm going to brief the rest of the Shepherds on what happened. I'll take this knucklehead with me," he says, gesturing at Virginie, who suddenly looks quite displeased. She opens her mouth to protest, but a look from Sullivan makes her think otherwise.

Chrom gives her approval and the rest of us file into the palace. The interior is every bit as majestic as I expect it to be. The entry hall is spectacular, a great marble staircase leading up to a lofted second floor. There are more doors than I care to count, each likely leading to another section of the gargantuan castle. Suits of armor holding ceremonial weapons line the velvet carpet roll we walk on. The walls are adorned with paintings and mosaics, some depicting what I assume to be past Exalts while others show fantastic battles. If ever a room could make me feel insignificant, this one does. Robin and Agatha seem to be in similar states of shock and awe. And then I see her. Emmeryn, coming down the stairs flanked by guards and Phila, who is most definitely not male either.

Emmeryn radiates harmony, balance, and peace. That's the best way to describe her. I can talk about her beauty or long blond hair or flowing robes or whatever, but none of that makes Emmeryn who she is. To look upon her is to feel at ease. Why Gangrel wants to murder a woman like this is beyond me. She hasn't even spoken yet, and I already understand how she was able to sacrifice herself. She and I briefly make eye contact. I shiver. If regality can be felt in a sidelong glance, I feel it then. I'm so enraptured that for a moment I fail to notice Robin and Agatha kneeling. Freya as well. I hastily do the same.

"Chrom! Liston! Welcome home. Oh, and good day, Freya. How fared you all?" she asks, her voice smooth and calm. "And please, rise. You all don't need to bow to me." I get up, looking over to see the others doing the same.

Chrom answers, though not with the scripted response. "We dealt with bandits in Southtown… but something terrible has happened." Chrom pauses, as if gathering strength. "Afterwards… there was a quake and the sky opened up, pouring out these nightmarish monsters. Southtown is lost."

The pain is palpable on Emmeryn's face. "Dear Naga…" she says, closing her eyes. Phila takes a step forward.

"We had not heard of what happened to Southtown, but the monsters you speak of have been sighted all across Ylisse," she states professionally, but her tone betrays sorrow.

Emmeryn recovers slightly. "Chrom. Your new companions—are they refugees from Southtown?"

Chrom shakes her head. "I would not call them refugees. We met in Southtown, but they've all been a great help since the disaster. Michael even saved my life." She goes on to introduce us all in turn, gesturing. "Robin. Michael. Agatha. I've decided to make Robin and Michael Shepherds.

"It sounds as though Ylisse owes all of you a debt of gratitude."

"Not at all, milady!" Robin says.

It's odd to hear scripted dialogue in fragments, mostly disregarded but still intact sometimes. I suppose it would be more strange if every conversation happened exactly as it did in the game. These are people after all, not programming.

"Forgive me, Your Grace, but I must speak. Robin claims to have lost their memory, but it is only that: a claim. We cannot rule out the possibility that they have some hand in all this," Freya says. She doesn't mention me. Maybe because I saved Chrom's life?

"Freya!" Chrom objects.

Emmeryn fixes Chrom with an even gaze. "Yet you allowed them into the castle, Chrom. Do they have your trust?" I can't help but think Emmeryn is trying to figure out Robin's gender as well.

Chrom does not hesitate in her answer. "Yes. Robin risked their life to deal with the brigands and those creatures. That's all I need."

Emmeryn smiles. "Well then, Robin… It seems you've earned Chrom's faith, and as such you have mine as well." Her lips twitch slightly. "Though I must ask, Robin… Are you a man or a woman? Forgive me if I intrude."

Oh no. Here we go again. "Can you not tell, milady?" Robin says glibly.

The Exalt tries not to frown. "No, Robin, I cannot."

"Does it _really_ matter?" Robin asks, wagging their eyebrows.

Emmeryn sighs. "I suppose… it does not." She turns to Chrom. "We are about to hold council. I hope you can join us."

"Of course," Chrom says, motioning for Freya to accompany her.

Liston looks at Robin, Agatha, and me. "That's our cue, guys. Come on, let's go. You're gonna meet the rest of the Shepherds."

Agatha seems a little anxious. "Chrom mentioned he knew someone who could get me a job and a place to stay? Do you know who that is?"

Liston laughs. "Emm of course. I'm sure Chrom meant you'd be working in the palace. We can always use more help!"

"The palace!" Agatha exclaims. "But I'm just a plain old innkeeper's assistant… Was an innkeeper's assistant." She stares at the floor.

"Agatha," Liston says, placing a hand on her shoulder. "Don't worry about it. We've got you covered. Now, we've got Shepherds to see!"

Satisfied that Agatha is reassured, Liston practically pushes us out the door. We walk across the palace grounds towards a modest barracks. Well, "modest" is a bit kind. The building is old and in desperate need of a renovation. Stones no longer line up evenly, the window glass is weathered and foggy, and ugly vines claim substantial portions of the walls. Disgustingly rustic is a better term for this place, especially considering its proximity to the castle.

"Here we are!" Liston says proudly.

" _This_ is where the Shepherds live?" I ask incredulously.

"Don't let the looks fool you. The inside is what counts," Liston says, still beaming with zeal.

We shall see. I don't actually mind the building much. After the past two days, anything with a roof will do. I'm more concerned about the Shepherds I haven't met yet. I assume they'll all be opposite genders too. Which is fine except….

For the sake of all that is holy, please be wearing a shirt, Vaike.

* * *

 **Author's Note: You all continue to amaze me with your support! The story has now been viewed 1600 times. Maybe that's not actually a lot, but it is to me. As I've said before, you all are the reason I write. I want to make you smile and laugh and enjoy reading my fic. I'm glad so many people seem to be reading it (or at least clicking), because I have big plans! Michael and the gang are in for a lot in the coming chapters. Now, review responses!**

 **Clutchvm- Trust me, it's not easy pumping these chapters out, but I love it! It's awesome to hear you're liking the changes! Yeah, I plan to have Michael and Freya's interaction be a large part of the story, so hopefully they start getting along, right?**

 **DatGuyAlucard- I think for the purposes of this fic, classes do not exist. People are better or worse at certain styles of fighting or weapons, but since reality vs. fantasy is a theme in this story, all "video game" elements are gone.**

 **Hammerschlag- Haha no way I have the stones to kill off Chrom. And believe me, to write this fic I needed to fully envision and plan out Chrom as a woman for it to work. Of course, this is all assuming MichaelxF!Chrom is the ship. ;)**

 **Serendipidous/ Serendipitous- It's ok; sometimes I can't spell mine either. I actually updated my bio after reading your review. It was a year old, and I've since graduated. Plus, the fic I mentioned there is not this one. That particular fic was an FE9 AU SI. But I'm really happy you're enjoying this one so much! And an FE7 fic… Hmm, maybe. Blazing Sword is one of my very favorites.**


	7. To be a Shepherd

Chapter VII: To be a Shepherd

* * *

So, good news: Vaike is not topless. Bad news: The "top" is nothing but an armored bra. At least it's more of a plate armor sports bra and less of a Victoria's Secret lingerie piece. Still, it's revealing enough to make poor Sullivan look everywhere except at Vaike—sorry, "Vaiva." Her boisterous demeanor doesn't help either. Neither does the fact her chest is, well… huge.

"So," she says, having gone through some of the scripted dialogue, albeit changed and absent Sumia. "Who are these strangers?"

"No one's stranger than you, Vaiva. But allow me to introduce Robin, Michael, and Agatha! Robin and Michael are new Shepherds, and Agatha will be working in the palace. Chrom's decided to make Robin our new tactician. Michael is a woodworker, so he's going to be making sure all our training equipment is in tiptop shape. You know, the wooden swords and axes and training dummies. These guys are amazing!" Liston introduces us with gusto. We all wave tentatively.

Vaiva grins maniacally. "Oh yeah? Can any of them do this?" I expect a long and loud belch, but what happens is much, much worse. It's long and loud all right, but it doesn't come from her mouth. For a moment, we're stunned. Then the gagging begins. Jesus fucking Christ, woman! Did you eat a Risen? Vaiva laughs throughout the whole ordeal, pointing at Maribelle— "Marius"—who's doubled over and trying not to puke.

To my satisfaction, Robin does not compliment Vaiva. "That was seriously disgusting," they say, wrinkling their nose, "Is that how you greet all new recruits?"

Marius straightens, giving Vaiva a glare almost too severe for words. "Ugh, Vaiva! That was abhorrent! Were you born in the sewer? From some grotesque blob? Something lower than a troglodyte! You are literally a pollutant. I don't have to stand here for this savagery." He looks at Robin, Agatha, and me. "Good day to you all. May the gods protect you from this idiocy!" Marius stomps off, heading up a flight of stairs and out of sight.

Liston scowls at Vaiva. "Not cool. Way not cool."

Vaiva seems genuinely surprised her antics go unappreciated. "You mean you didn't think it was funny?"

"Is anyone laughing, Vaiva?" Liston rolls his eyes. "Please forgive this moron. I promise she doesn't represent the Shepherds as a whole."

Vaiva sulks while I shake my head. "It's fine. Every village has its idiot, right?"

"Hey, watch it, buddy," Vaiva growls.

Liston thumps her on the back. "Don't be mad because it's true, Vaiva." He pauses, looking the warrior over. "Where's your axe?"

She blinks. "Huh. It's right… AH! Where did it go?" She frets.

"See? You don't even know where your own axe went," Liston says smugly. "If the Shepherds are a village, you're definitely the idiot. But you're _our_ idiot, Vaiva." Liston smiles warmly.

Vaiva groans, having given up on finding her axe. "Whatever."

A young man with light-brown hair comes down the stairs, looking a little anxious. His chest piece is pearl colored, etched with swirling designs. He wears riding breeches and tall boots laced tight. One hand holds a pair of reins.

"Ah, Sumner! Come meet the new guys!" Liston says upon seeing him, making a come-hither motion.

Sumner walks towards us, stopping next to Vaiva. "Marius told me you were down here," he says kindly before turning to Liston. "Er, might I ask where the captain is?"

"You've been frettin' over her all day, Sumner! Couldn't even block my attacks in practice!" Vaiva says, irritated.

Liston grins. "A little worried about Chrom, huh?"

Sumner laughs nervously. "Well, I… um. She's our captain and princess! It's only natural to worry!" he explains, tripping over the words. Yeah, this guy is definitely Sumia.

And he annoys me. I can't explain why. He seems like a nice guy.

"Chrom is in a council meeting. You'll see her soon." I say a little harshly. Wow, that came out wrong. No need to be a dick to Sumner, man.

He catches my eye as I speak, clearly bemused by my tone. "I'm sorry. I never introduced myself to you all. I'm Sumner." He shakes each of our hands, spending a little longer on mine. "Can I have your names?

"Michael," I say, still sounding surly. Robin and Agatha say their names as well.

Sumner cocks his head at Robin, and I already know what's about to happen. "I don't mean to be rude, but I can't tell if you're a man or woman… Not in a bad way though!"

"Don't bother," I snap, cutting in. "We've all tried multiple times to find out." Robin looks crestfallen, having been denied the opportunity to mess with us again.

"Did I do something to offend you, Michael?" Sumner asks politely, nothing but concern in his voice. Stop being so nice, dude.

"No, I… I've just had a long last couple of days. Sorry," I reply, feeling guilty about my less than friendly first impression. What's gotten into me?

He smiles. "I understand. Sullivan told us what happened. It must have been awful… All those people… And those horrible things… I'm sorry the rest of us weren't there to aid you"

"Yeah, well, we made it. That's what counts, right?" I say in a slightly more placid voice. I look sideways to see Robin staring at me shrewdly.

Sumner nods. "I suppose so. I'm glad you did."

"As am I." Chrom steps through the doorway. "Apologies. I couldn't help but hear the tail end of that conversation."

"C-C-C-Captain! You've r-r-r-returned! I… W-W-W-We were so w-w-w-worried!" Sumner says, well, attempts to say. It seems that rather than faceplanting, he stumbles in a whole other manner around Chrom. Again, I feel annoyed.

"Sumner, there's that stutter again! You should really have someone try to help you with that," Chrom says, completely oblivious.

Blushing, Sumner stammers some more. "I'm t-t-t-trying!"

Chrom gives him a reassuring smile. "Hang in there! I know you'll overcome it someday," she says before adopting a pose of authority. "During the council meeting, we decided to march for Regna Ferox in the morning."

There's a collective whispering as Robin asks what Regna Ferox is.

"A kingdom to the north," Sumner answers. "They're well known for their ferocity. Some even say they're barbarians." Seems like the stutter only happens when he speaks to Chrom directly.

The princess shakes her head. "Not barbarians. Warriors. We're going to need their prowess if we hope to stem the tide of this new threat. Normally, Emmeryn would go herself, but given the circumstances we do not want to alarm the people with her sudden departure. So, it's up to us." Chrom pauses, making eye contact with each of the Shepherds present. "This mission is voluntary, so if you don't—"

"I'm in," Liston says instantly. "As if I'd let you go alone."

"Ol' Teach is comin' too! You're gonna need my axe for a mission like this," Vaiva declares, flexing her admittedly pretty solid muscles.

"You can't even find it," Liston chirps.

Vaiva rounds on him. "Details!"

"I'll go as well." I literally jump into the air at the soft voice. A tall woman wearing a massive suit of armor stands directly behind me. Despite her size, she has the most unassuming presence I've ever encountered. The rest of the group seems equally flabbergasted, save Agatha.

"Gods, Kelda! You've got to stop doing that!" Chrom yells, startled.

"Doing what?" asks Agatha.

"You know, the whole stealthy stealth thing," Liston says, miming sneaking about.

"But she's been here the whole time. You all really didn't notice? She's huge!" Agatha walks over to Kelda, using her hands to articulate difference in height. It's true; the giant knight dwarfs me as well.

"You…. can see me?" Kelda asks, looking at Agatha in wonder.

She nods. "Of course. How could I not?" Kelda's face is equal parts appreciation and disappointment. Right, Kellam in the games is secretly proud of his ability.

"Well," Chrom says with a sigh. "I guess if we need to find you, we'll just call for Agatha." Seriously. I give up if I can't spot a person this big. In fact… where is she now? Shit. How is this possible?

While I desperately search for Kelda to no avail, Sumner speaks. "Er… C-C-C-Captain. I'm not s-s-s-sure I'm r-r-r-ready for a big m-m-m-mission yet. I m-m-m-might get in the w-w-w-way."

Chrom scratches her chin. "You can stay behind the front lines and watch, if you like. You can at least study us. Though, some lessons are only learnt on the battlefield."

Sumner nods. "If y-y-y-you t-t-t-think I s-s-s-should."

"Don't worry. If we stick together, you'll be fine." Chrom flashes a winning smile. Sumner about keels over. There's that hint of annoyance again. Damn.

Images of Sumner swooping down the save Chrom at the Longfort invade my thoughts as unwelcome visitors. I don't like it. I don't like the idea of Sumner flying through the air being all dazzling and shit. Dude can barely talk, but he gets to zip around in the sky with Chrom on the back of his pegasus? While I sit here trying to pretend I know how the hell to make a training dummy? Fuck that.

"I want to go," I say firmly.

Chrom's frown makes my confidence crumble. "This mission will likely see combat, Michael. You have no experience. I can't let you risk your life when you have no training."

I contemplate that for a moment, weighing my rebuttal. "You just told Sumner he could stay out of the fight and watch. I don't have to be in the thick of it. Listen, Chrom, I can't just sit here while everyone else goes." In truth, I don't want to risk my life. But I don't want to stay at the barracks either.

"Sumner isn't helpless," Chrom counters. OK. Ouch. "He has experience. You don't. If it comes to a fight, he can defend himself." She blows a hair out of her face, as if this argument is troublesome.

"Then train me," I say stubbornly. "I want to go."

She purses her lips. "You joined us as a woodworker, Michael. Not a fighter."

Damnit. I'm going to have to tell the truth, aren't I? Or at least some of it. I sigh. They'd have figured it out as soon as I tried to make something anyways. "I lied. I don't know how to make wooden swords or axes or training dummies. I can maybe make a shitty table or bookshelf. I just wanted to join the Shepherds. I wanted to be a part of this." I gesture around me. "In my village, I was just a… merchant. My uncle really did teach me everything I know about woodworking… I'm just not very good. So, take me or leave me, Chrom. You know the truth now."

The wounded expression on her face is like a sucker punch. I violated her trust. "Why did you lie, Michael? I trusted you."

Honesty is still the best policy, right? "I… I didn't think I'd be enough if I was just… me. I needed to be more. Would you have accepted me if I hadn't lied? Would you have told someone who's no use on the battlefield that they can tag along? You just proved you wouldn't have. I did what I had to do." I meet her gaze, challenging her. If she kicks me out., she kicks me out. I'm not going to fake it anymore. _I_ want to be a Shepherd. Not some pretend version of me.

Chrom looks at a loss for words. The other Shepherds are silent. It becomes clear this is conversation purely between Chrom and I. Slowly, they find excuses to leave the room, and one by one they disappear until it's just the two of us. I'm thankful for that. I hardly want to bare my soul in front of all these people.

"Michael," Chrom starts, her voice soft and low. "Why would you think you weren't enough?"

I laugh, though it's mirthless. "Look at me. Do you see a warrior?"

"I see the person who put his life in jeopardy to save mine," she replies, her mouth curving upward slightly in devastating fashion.

I don't have a response to that. I simply stare, feeling limp. Chrom takes my silence as reason to go on.

"A person isn't a Shepherd because I say they are, Michael. Your actions make you a Shepherd. And that doesn't mean fighting bandits or monsters. That doesn't mean anything by itself. Shepherds are willing to sacrifice themselves for others. When you went into the fire to save me… You became a Shepherd."

"What are you saying?" I ask, not daring to look away.

"I'm saying exactly what I mean. You're a Shepherd. Yes, you broke my trust. That hurt. But I still believe in you. And I believe your heart is in the right place." Chrom takes a step closer, her eye glittering in a way they hadn't before.

"If all that is true, then take me with you to Regna Ferox," I insist.

She pauses. "No."

Anger flares up. "Why not?!" I demand. "You said it's a volunteer mission. I'm fucking volunteering."

Chrom looks away, her hair hiding her face. "I don't want you to get hurt."

I sigh. "That's a stupid reason."

Her eyes snap back to me, blazing. "No, it isn't! My heart had _stopped_. You brought me back. I don't have the ability to do that for you."

"So, this is about you, not me."

"Not entirely. You really don't know how to fight," she says, her voice a little more baseline again.

"Like I said, teach me."

Realizing the back and forth is futile, Chrom throws her arms in the air. "Fine! You win! Fine. You can come. But you are to stay out of battle. I'll decide when you're ready."

Victory surges through me. I resist the urge to pump my fist in the air. I'm going to Regna Ferox.

Oh shit. I'm going to Regna Ferox. The full meaning of that revelation hits me. This is the real deal. And because of the timeline, I can't foresee anything. I know what _should_ happen. But what _will_ happen? If I try to change things, to help using my knowledge of the game, I risk breaking things even more than they already are. On top of that, I'm learning to fight too? I feel a little sick.

"Michael, are you OK?" Chrom asks. "You look pale."

"I'm fine," I say quickly. "Just tired. And convincing you… it was exhausting."

Chrom laughs, a feathery sound. "You say that as if it wasn't exhausting for me too. You're quite persistent." Her expression changes to a serious one. "But if you're tired, get some rest. We have plenty of empty rooms. The entire third floor is still unused. Pick whichever room you like."

I nod, a wave of fatigue crashing into me. "I think I'll take you up on that." I move past Chrom, my head filled with a cacophony of thoughts. "Goodnight."

She catches me by the arm as I brush past, her fingertips pressing lightly into my skin. "Michael… Don't ever feel like you aren't worth it." Chrom stares at me for several moments before letting go. "Goodnight."

All I can do is nod, looking down and walking briskly. I rush up the stairs, finding myself on the third floor in no time. I pick the first room on the left, fiddling with the old knob for a second until it finally allows me inside. The room is small but cozy. A bed vastly more appealing than the one at the inn awaits in the back-right corner. Beside it sits a small nightstand, roughly hewn from what looks like oak. A bookcase and desk round out the room on the other side, though the bookcase is empty. I flop onto the bed, a puff of dust clouding the air momentarily. I sneeze. The room needs a thorough cleaning. Regardless, I curl up on the bed, pulling the blankets over myself.

I don't remember falling asleep. Dreams of Risen and death and destruction plague me. I awake after a nightmare involving Chrom being torn apart by the rabid undead, me paralyzed on the sidelines and unable to assist. Sweat rolls down my neck, and I toss the covers off. I feel the effects of the dream still, the despair of being powerless, the cold pit in my stomach. I swing my legs over the side of the bed, feet dragging against the wood flooring. The dream felt real, and I breathe in deeply in an effort to recuperate. It doesn't work. I get up, pushing open the door, using my hand against the wall to navigate through the dark. I wander the halls of the barracks, knowing that I'm lost but not caring. I just want to go somewhere, anywhere, to escape my thoughts. Problem with that is you carry them around with you everywhere.

Finding myself at a window overlooking the training yard, I stare at the equipment, the things I was supposed to be able to build and maintain. The moonlight casts it all in an eerie glow, an off-white silver that's oddly bright. Perhaps the lack of electricity allows the stars and moon to shine at their full force. I search for a door to the outside, eventually locating it.

The night air is crisp and cuts through my thin layer of clothing. It doesn't bother me; it's a distraction from the nightmare, from the thoughts of what the journey to Regna Ferox will bring. I step on something. Looking down, I see that it's a training sword, wooden and battered with hefty use. When I pick it up, the sword feels awkward in my hand, too long and heavy. Nevertheless, I stride over to a training dummy and take a swing, a wide arc that misses entirely. Pathetic. I try again, managing only weak blows that rattle my arm. Frustrated, I grip the sword in both hands, beating it against the dummy like a baseball bat. I do this over and over at full strength, letting the anger flow. The sword busts, splintering at the hilt in my hands.

Collapsing onto the grass, I lie spread eagle, arms throbbing, palms scraped and burning. Did it feel good, battering that poor training dummy? Maybe. Did it make all the apprehension, the trepidation, the anxiety go away? No. I'm just as flustered as before.

"We don't have an unlimited supply of those," a voice says above me.

I sit up and turn around to see Freya, dressed plainly in a tunic and pants, standing with her arms folded across her chest. "Milady informed me of what you said. Appears I was not wrong to think you were lying."

"If you're here to gloat, you can fuck off," I say sharply, hauling myself from the ground.

"On the contrary, I'm here to thank you," she says. "Or I should say I'm taking the opportunity after being awoken by someone beating a training mannequin senseless."

I give her a questioning look. "Thank me? For what?"

She leans down to collect the broken pieces of the sword. "For your honesty," Freya says, adjusting the pieces of wood under her arm. "I can't trust anyone who isn't telling the truth."

"Are you saying you trust me now?" I snort.

Freya lets out a restrained laugh. "Hardly. But it's a start." She walks past me to inspect the damage I've done to the dummy. "You must have thought milady was going to remove you from the Shepherds."

I scowl. "It may have crossed my mind."

"I would not have been sad to see you go," Freya says, looking up at me.

I roll my eyes. "No shit." I blow out a long sigh. "Look, is there a point to this, or are you just gonna insult me?"

Freya runs her finger along a deep gouge in the mannequin. "You swing a sword quite hard." She straightens, using her free hand to point at the shards under her arm. "These aren't meant to break."

I laugh derisively. "It wouldn't have broken if it wasn't so shitty and old. Who the hell makes those things?"

"I made it," Freya says, sounding a marginally peeved.

"Well, you're shit. What kind of wood is this?" I ask, knowing the answer but wanting to be sure.

"Pine from the forest outside the city." She sounds pleased with herself.

I shake my head. "Why the hell would you use a softwood like pine for a sword? You literally beat this against things all day. You want a hardwood. Oak, cherry, or birch. Something like that."

Freya turns red. "Milady said you lied about your knowledge of woodworking."

"I did," I say flatly. "But this is the basic of the basic. Even amateurs can select the right kind of wood. Pine breaks easily. You didn't help yourself by making the part where the blade joins the hilt too thin either."

She looks personally offended. "I've made dozens of those. How many have you made?"

"Zero. Which is better than you, because I haven't made a bunch of shitty ones."

"If you're so confident in your opinion, maybe _you_ should make them." Freya wears a smug expression.

Shit. I'm not getting roped into this. "I don't know how," I say, which is now a lie, having observed one.

"But obviously you know how _so_ much better than me," she says tauntingly. I know what's happening, but I'm powerless to resist. Damn this woman.

"You know what? I will make these swords, and they'll be the best damn training swords you've ever seen." Fuck it. If she wants to bait me into doing what I said I'd do in the first place, fine. She can bait me.

Freya dons a holier-than-thou expression. "Then it's settled. You'll make all our practice swords." She promptly turns and goes back inside without another word. I can guarantee she was smiling the whole way.

I stand in the training yard feeling foolish for a long time. Sighing, I head into the barracks as well. The sun will probably rise soon, and I need as much sleep as possible to be ready for the march tomorrow. And to forget being outwitted by Freya.

Stupid wooden swords.

* * *

 **Author's Note: And there you have it, Mike is going on an adventure. Where it will lead him, who knows? But I suppose if you've read this far, you're interested in finding out! So, thank you for supporting my story in all its wackiness. It's been quite a ride so far, writing so much in so little time. But as I said last time, I love it! Anywho, review responses!**

 **Serendipitous- Your reviews are so encouraging! I look forward to them now. Thanks for the catch with the "Frederick" slip; it's been fixed. Since you brought up recruiting Emmeryn, this is as good a time as any to say that the SpotPass chapters are not canon in this story. There is an actual reason for this that will be explained, but you'll have to read to find out! Suffice to say, Mike is going to start wondering about it too. And yes, I'm glad Agatha's sticking around too!**

 **Hammerschlag- Your reviews as well are also very encouraging. I like knowing that at least one person as been there since the beginning (all of two weeks ago lol). But thank you for your praise! I actually think pretty hard about the words I use. Sometimes I just stare at a word for a long time, wondering if it's fine to use.**

 **Guest- I'm so glad you find it interesting! I'm certainly going to keep it up!**


	8. The Road to Regna Ferox

Chapter VIII: The Road to Regna Ferox

* * *

I awake to the smell of… bacon. Yes, bacon. And eggs. And pancakes.

Oh my God. Bacon. Eggs. Pancakes.

I repeat the holy trinity of breakfast in my head like a mantra as I roll out of bed. All I ate yesterday was that kebab, so I'm understandably famished. Not having a mirror or another set of clothes—and not caring at present—I don't go through any morning rituals before leaving my room. Though I do vaguely wonder if I might be able to procure a toothbrush. Or some medieval equivalent. Chrom and the others have clean teeth, so they must have something.

Once in the hall, I hear commotion below, the sounds of conversation and dishes clattering about. I head downstairs, following the sounds and smells of breakfast. I end up on the ground floor, and after taking a few turns find myself in what must be the mess. All the Shepherds are gathered here, divided up among the several long tables dotting the room. In the center of each is a treasure trove, a glorious cornucopia of food. Yes, there's bacon, eggs, and pancakes, but there's also muffins, sausages, biscuits and gravy, and bread. And butter. And jam. Sweet baby Jesus.

I scan the tables, picking out the people I know and the one's I don't. Everyone I've met thus far is here plus a couple new additions. A man with glasses and a pointy wizard's hat sits very still at the end of one of the tables, closely observing a muffin. The woman beside him is also new—messy olive hair done up in a hasty ponytail and wearing a green shirt. Miriel and Stahl, I'm guessing. Or I think I remember Chrom mentioning a "Miro." I wonder what Stahl's name is? Wait, didn't Stahl miss breakfast in the game? Another minor change. I don't see Ricken either, so there's that as well.

"This muffin is exquisite! The texture is so… so ambrosial! You simply must allow me to catalog its properties, Stana," Miro says, eyes bulging at the muffin.

Stana looks at the muffin then Miro. "I didn't do anything special. It's just a muffin. Really, I just felt like eating a lot of muffins."

Miro clutches the muffin, inhaling deeply. "Balderdash! The aroma alone supplicates mastication."

"Right…" Stana nods, but her face is beyond confused.

Miro goes on and on about the muffin, and I tune out the pair out. You can only hear so many big words about muffins before you need to eat one. I settle myself at Chrom's table—one she shares with Liston, Freya, and Robin.

"Morning, Michael!" Liston says. Is he always so chipper?

"Morning," I mumble groggily, grabbing a plate and piling it high with bacon, eggs, and pancakes. I grab a muffin too for good measure. They're apparently exquisite.

"Quite an appetite you have there," Chrom says, amused. Like she has any room to talk. Her plate is stacked with food as well.

"I'm hungry," I say bluntly, punctuating the words with a forkful of egg.

"Clearly," Freya observes, picking daintily at a sausage, cutting it into pieces before taking a bite.

I'm too busy shoveling eggs and bacon into my face to respond. Holy crap. Whoever made this can _cook_. I take a bite of the muffin, savoring its rich flavor. Did Stana do everything, not just the muffins? "Who made all this?" I ask, drenching my pancakes in syrup.

Chrom points her fork in Stana's direction. "Stana, the woman in green over there, did most of the work. But Sumner, Kelda, and Freya helped. Or at least I think Kelda helped…" Freya, huh? I give her a glance, raising my fork in a kind of breakfast tribute.

I nod at Chrom. "I heard Stana talking to the man with the glasses about making the muffins. Miro, right?"

"Yes. He's… very intelligent," Chrom says, though she sounds as if "intelligent" doesn't cover it.

Liston sighs. "I can only understand about half of everything he says."

I get the distinct feeling a trying to speak to Miro requires a thesaurus. If he's anything like the Miriel in the game, I want to avoid him at all costs. If anyone is going to see through me, to deduce I'm not from this world, it's Miro. I'll need to be extra careful around him.

Steadfast in my determination to make myself scarce when Miro is present, I return to breakfast. These pancakes aren't going to eat themselves. Each mouthful is heaven. Sweet, sweet heaven. Seriously, Stana, please never stop being hungry. The world would be a lesser place without this breakfast.

I spend the rest of the meal in relative silence, listening to Liston chatter rather than join in myself. I make the occasional small talk remark, but mostly I drift into thoughts of Regna Ferox, more specifically the Risen we're supposed to encounter on the way there. I have no way of knowing when it will happen. The game made it seem like it wasn't long after they'd left, but with all the changes… It's as good as an ambush as far as I'm concerned. This is going to be a very unpleasant journey.

"Michael." I startle at the sound of Chrom's voice. "Welcome back to the living." She laughs, grinning widely.

"What?" I ask, looking up from my long empty plate. "Did I miss something?"

"We're getting ready to head out soon. I need to take you to get properly equipped," she says, still smiling. "I hope you didn't plan on coming along unarmed."

Wielding a weapon didn't even cross my mind. Probably should have, considering I know this is a dangerous mission. I'd also asked her just last night to train me to fight. "Well, I'd rather be armed than disarmed. If you get my meaning." I make a few chopping motions.

Chrom giggles. Yes, giggles. "Ha! You're funny, aren't you?"

I feel my face heat up. "Um… Yeah, if you say so…"

She stands, waving me over with a hand. "Come on, Michael," she says with a little laugh. "Let's go get you a sword and some armor."

Most people would probably feel pretty awesome about now, right? I mean, who doesn't want a sword? I just feel tense. The ramifications of fighting in battle haven't hit me until this moment. What if I don't learn fast enough? What if I have zero talent? What if people get hurt because of me?

What if I die?

Shit, Achilles was a badass, and all it took was a poisoned arrow to the heel. I'm not Achilles. I'm not even the guy who polishes his shield. I'm maybe the dude who empties his chamber pot. Thoughts swirling, I follow Chrom to the armory.

Inside there are rows upon rows of weapons, shields, and armor pieces. Every available space is covered with war paraphernalia. Most of the armaments seem used or at least aged, but a few stand out as newly forged.

Chrom faces me, arms outstretched as if to encompass the area. "Here we are! The Shepherds' stockpile. We've more equipment here than we can use, so I believe it's safe to say you can have your pick." She hesitates, scratching her cheek. "Well, _I_ can have your pick. I might know more about all this than you."

She'll hear no complaint from me. "Don't worry. I trust your judgement," I say, already overwhelmed by the options.

"Well, for a beginner like you, we probably want a basic sword and shield combination," she explains, browsing the various shields. "In general, it's better to have a shield than not. Especially for an inexperienced combatant."

That's a little hypocritical. "You don't use a shield," I point out.

Chrom taps Falchion at her hip. "But I wield a sword that can be used with two hands. When all else fails, I block with my pauldron."

"That makes sense," I concur, noting that Chrom is also a flashier fighter than most.

She traces the wood grain on a round shield, knocking the round metal piece in the center. Chrom makes a noise of approval. "Here, try this one," she says, walking over with the shield and handing it to me.

The first thing I notice is how light is it considering it covers most of my upper body. The second is the meticulous engraving along the shield's iron rim, a pattern of leaves and branches. Clearly, someone put a lot of love into this shield. I loop my right arm through the leather fittings on the back, lifting the shield up and down to test its stability. Feels good.

"So?" Chrom asks. "How is it?"

I raise the shield as if intercepting a strike. "It's not too heavy or big. It doesn't wobble when I move around. This is a nice shield. Or I suppose it is, since I know nothing about them."

"It is a nice shield," Chrom states, more as a fact than in agreement with me. "Now you need a nice sword. That's a lot trickier." She glides over to a sword rack, sizing them up. "A good sword is different for different people. There's are many factors to think about, but the most important is balance. A sword should feel like an extension of your arm."

"And what does that feel like, exactly?" I ask.

Chrom shrugs. "You just know. When I hold Falchion, everything feels right. No other sword is quite the same." She selects a sword, holding it out to me. "Give it a swing."

Accepting the blade, I turn away from Chrom to slash the air. Wrong. Something's off about the sword. I shake my head. "Not this one," I say, handing it back.

She nods, looking contemplative before choosing another sword. I stab with that one as well. Again, not for me. We go through several swords in this manner, though Chrom never loses her patience. Finally, she gives me an exceptionally plain sword. No frills, no designs, no carvings or markings. It's perfect. Like she said, I just know. This is my sword. My weapon.

After a few seconds with the sword, I look at Chrom. "This is it," I say with certainty.

Chrom doesn't question my decision. She tosses me the scabbard. "Then it's yours."

By the time we leave the armory, I'm fully outfitted with a sword and shield, boots, leather gloves, and a gambeson. It's like I stepped into a Renaissance fair and came out Aragorn. Not that I'm complaining. What is it people say? Look good, feel good? To an extent, it's true. I'm still tense, but at least now I look the part of a proper soldier.

Most of the Shepherds are gathered outside the barracks, save Marius and Ricken, the former of whom I know to be headed to Themis. Ricken is still a mystery. I assume he is now a she, but I don't know if that would affect things. Ricken's a child after all. For Marius's sake, I hope Ricken is lurking around somewhere. I can't rely on my own ability to save him from Aversa, and that's if events even play out as they do in the game. Maybe I should warn Chrom of an attack on Themis? But that makes me look suspicious, as I can't explain how I know such information. It's probably best to try and minimize my disruption of events. For all I know, my direct involvement could make matters worse. Then again, I'm already a Shepherd. Decisions, decisions. In the end, I elect to say nothing, hoping I don't regret it.

"Chrom! Michael!" Liston greets us as we exit the barracks. "The rest of the Shepherds are getting antsy. Are we ready?"

Beside me, Chrom nods. "If everyone else is prepared, then yes," she says, then raises her voice. "OK, Shepherds! Get ready to move out! We have a long road ahead to Regna Ferox."

The Shepherds mobilize immediately, Freya, Sullivan, and Stana all mounting horses while Sumner ushers his pegasus into the sky. I guess Freya and Sullivan found new horses. With a pang, I remember Sullivan's horse. Poor bastard. I see Vaiva and realize I need to do something to assuage my guilt.

"Hey, Vaiva! Forget your axe again?" I yell in a teasing manner.

"Course I got it! Ol' girl is right… DAMNIT!" she swears, sprinting into the barracks while the Shepherds around her laugh. You can thank me later, Vaiva, my friend.

While Vaiva is gone, Agatha runs across the courtyard, her face sweaty and red. "Thank the gods you haven't already left! I thought I wasn't going to get to see you off!" She stops in front of me, hands on her knees. Once she catches her breath, she holds out a small sack. "I made this for you. It's lunch."

I point at myself. "Um, just me?"

Agatha cocks her head. "Yeah, just you," she says. "I never thanked you for saving my life. I know it's not much, but…"

Slowly, I take the lunch sack. "Thanks, Agatha," I say, a little surprised but pleased.

She pokes me in the shoulder. "You better come back alive."

"Don't worry about me. I'll be fine," I say, though honestly I'm not sure.

Agatha nods. "You better be. OK. I'm leaving now. Stay safe." With that, she turns to walk away.

My brows furrow. "You're not gonna say goodbye?"

Without turning around, she says, "I don't do goodbyes!"

I laugh as she makes her way back to the palace. Weirdo.

Vaiva returns, axe safely in her possession, and we hit the road. Doing some asking around, I find that the trip to Regna Ferox usually takes about a week on foot, give or take a day for favorable or unfavorable conditions. This is very disheartening, if unsurprising, news. Fortunately, there are a couple spare horses loaded with food and supplies, so at least we're well-prepared for the mission. Unfortunately, a week is a long time to be wondering when a horde of Risen will attack. Day one? Day two? Day five? I know the constant need for vigilance will drive me insane. Granted, I'm not the only one worried about Risen. Chrom and Robin both decide it's best to send Freya and Sumner ahead of the group to scout. This eases my mind slightly, but the next seven days are going to be hell in more than one way. Hey, at least I can call them Risen now that the council's named them.

On a positive note, the landscape dazzles. Mountains loom in the distance while a river—the Glavka, according to Chrom—flows from their foothills. Woodland flanks our road, much thicker than south of Ylisstol. It rises and falls with the hills, a sea of green. Occasionally, the river winds through great bluffs, their stone weathered by years of the water's relentless stream. I can say a lot of things about walking all day, but that's it ugly isn't one of them.

"So, Michael," someone beside me says. "I don't think we've been properly introduced."

I turn to see Stana, her horse trotting alongside me. She's holding out her hand, which I shake. "No, we haven't," I reply. "I heard you cooked breakfast this morning. It was delicious."

"Oh, I only learned to cook because I'm always hungry. But I figure I need to do everything I can to earn my keep, you know? So, I make most of the meals. Though I do have lots of help. Usually from Freya and Sumner. Never Sullivan." Her placid expression falters momentarily, as if recalling a disastrous cooking session.

I laugh, imagining Sullivan in an apron, doing his darnedest to whip up a quality dish. "Well, all I'm saying is that if you ever hang it up as a Shepherd, you've got a future as a chef."

Stana waves her hands in front of herself. "Oh, no, I could never. And, besides I'm pretty content where I am. Even though I'm only average at all this."

"You're definitely way above average at cooking," I assure her.

She smiles, a bright one that reaches her eyes. "If my cooking makes people happy, then that's all that matters. So, thank you. Do you like to cook, Michael?"

Saturday afternoons as a kid with my mom and dad, grilling up hotdogs and burgers, come to mind. "Yeah, I do," I say wistfully.

"Is something the matter?" Stana asks.

"No… I just… Your question reminded me of some people I used to have in my life." I don't want to cry in front of Stana. Or anyone, really. So, I lock up the emotions before they drift too far.

Stana hums lightly. "You miss them." It's not a question. "You know, Michael, the Shepherds are like a family. We all look out for one another. Nobody gets left behind."

I attempt to turn my feelings off, but it's not working. "I never said anything about family."

"You didn't have to." Goddamn perceptive people.

"Look, can we talk about something else?"

She blinks and suddenly looks very concerned. "I'm sorry! I didn't mean to upset you. I could just tell you were a bit down, and I wanted to help. It's probably not my place, though…"

I give her a forced smile. "You're fine. This is just something I have to deal with on my own."

Stana doesn't say anything, though I know she wants to. The ensuing silence is awkward, and we slowly let the distance between increase until we're no longer side by side. I don't want to think about it, but what Stana said is true. I miss them. I miss my family so much. I'm barely keeping myself together. Fuck this. It's my own fault I'm here. I don't have the right to miss them.

Sumner appears in the sky, racing towards us at high speed.

Interrupting Catastrophe?

"Risen!" he shouts. "Risen along the road to the north!"

Yep. Interrupting Catastrophe.

Looks like the Risen are a day one problem. Bile rises in my throat. How many are there? How long do we have until they're on us? Forest frames the road, so much so that I cannot see past the curve up ahead. Doesn't give us much time to prepare once we see them. I wonder what Robin's plan is? Freya comes riding into view, skidding to a halt before Chrom.

"Milady, we've only minutes before the Risen engage us. They outnumber us at least four to one." There are twelve Shepherds, myself included, so probably about fifty Risen. Fantastic.

Chrom acknowledges Freya before turning to the rest of the Shepherds. "Battle formation, everyone! Melee in front, ranged in back. Sumner and Michael, stay out of the fight!"

Robin runs to Chrom's side. "Wait! There's a better way! If we make a plain stand against so many, we're going to be overrun! We don't have long so listen carefully," Robin glances at Chrom for approval to take command, which she gives. "OK. We're going to ambush them. These woods are dense. We can easily hide on either side. Half our number will move to one side and half to the other. When the Risen appear, we attack from both sides at once, crushing them. Now, we don't have the manpower for sustained combat, so hit and run. These things aren't very smart. At least half will go down in our initial strike. The rest we will pick off after retreating back into the forest. Chrom, Liston, Freya, Vaiva, Michael, and myself will make up one team. Sullivan, Stana, Virginie, Miro, Kelda, and Sumner will comprise the other. Yes, I'm sorry Michael and Sumner, but I need you both for this to bolster our shock force. Are we clear?"

It takes a moment to digest Robin's speech, but Chrom is objecting only seconds later. "No way. Michael can't fight, and Sumner isn't confident in battle yet."

"Chrom, they won't have to have to do much. We just need them to slash and dash. Nothing lengthy. And Sumner can attack from the sky, the principle is the same. There's no other way this works for certain. Michael may be a novice, but he can swing a sword." Yeah, barely, Robin.

I'm scared shitless. But if Robin needs me, Robin needs me. Either I swing my sword like a madman, or I sit back and watch my friends possibly die. The choice is easy. "I'll do it."

"Me too!" Sumner says, having landed a while ago. Seeing the determination, the bravery in his eyes, I feel a pang of shame. I really was a dick to him yesterday. He deserves an apology. A proper one. I don't believe I realized it until just now, but know why I acted so poorly: jealousy. Stupid, petty jealousy. His affection for Chrom forced me to notice by own burgeoning feelings. However, it's not the time for this.

"But—" Chrom begins.

Robin cuts her off. "No buts! We're running out of time. We need to set up the ambush now! Or we _will_ die."

Chrom clenches her fists. "Gods, I hate ultimatums! Fine! Everyone, get into your positions as Robin said!"

We run to the forest, each group to their own side. Not seconds later, the Risen appear, ambling down the road. It's strange to see them when they're not attacking something. They move in an unsettling manner, hobbling but clearly dexterous enough to be threatening. Their eyes are soulless red pits, glowing with something that isn't life but isn't death either. It's a catatonic limbo, an existence in name alone, their purpose to sow destruction without remorse or thought—cruel apathy, puppets of Grima.

Someone taps my shoulder. I jump slightly. Fucking nerves. "Michael," Robin says, their voice low. "Under no circumstance do I want you dueling out there. Just try to land a solid blow and then bolt. You can't help anyone if you're dead. Don't try to do more than you're capable of. If something goes wrong, just run. This plan doesn't work if we end up needing to save you." Their face is beyond serious. Robin is under no illusion that I can hold my own. I'm here to be a warm body in the fray—anything else is a liability. I nod in understanding. Robin smiles grimly, focusing on the incoming Risen.

My breath hitches as the Risen cross between our two groups. Robin gives the signal, a spark from their thunder tome. I raise my sword, ready to charge.

Please don't die, Mike.

* * *

 **Author's Note: Wow, it's been a while, everyone. First, I'd like to apologize for disappearing and making it look like I'd abandoned this story. I love this story too much to leave it unfinished. But the last few months have been especially difficult for me on a personal level. Physically and mentally. I suppose this is as good a time as any to mention that I have cancer. Had it for a while now, since before I even started this fic. It's been a really tough battle that's put me in the hospital multiple times. But I'm still kicking. According to the doctors, the cancer is in remission (for real this time). I'm feeling stronger every day. So enough of this mopey crap! I have reviews to respond to!**

 **Hammerschlag- Hope you haven't forgotten about this story! I appreciate your reviews greatly, and am quite pleased you like the developments with Freya and Mike. Really hope you read and enjoy this chapter!**

 **Ultimate Black Ace- I'm glad you mention Mike's failings here. I wanted him to lose some points, as you say. So far, Mike hasn't really had to face true consequences. Perhaps in the future he'll suffer a bit…**

 **OriksGaming- Well, thank you so much for risking it and reading! The gender-bender element was the only idea I had when I first starting writing the story, since FE seriously doesn't like any GB fics. Or at least popular ones. But I knew I'd need to produce more reasons to read than just that. So, I'm happy you seem to have found them!**

 **Guest- Yeah, the CPR might have been a tad dramatic. Though, I just felt there needed to be a catalytic moment.**

 **Tiberiuas- As I said to Ultimate Black Ace, you're right about Mike. The way he acted around Sumner was annoying. But don't worry—he's got some growing up in store!**

 **Clutchvm- Mike may or may not want a slice of Chrom pie.**

 **Caellach Tiger Eye- Woah, huge thank you for the detailed review! And sorry to leave you hanging this long! About the SpotPass chapters… It's more like I'm ignoring them as playable characters, not the backstories provided (though the events, like the surviving of deaths, are non-canon for me). The gender-bending does have a reason, but it won't be revealed just yet. Now, as for the way I name the characters, it's probably obviously that they all begin with the same first three letters of their original name. But the names also reflect what I believe suits them best as a character. And funny you should mention Lucina's name… it might break the trend a bit when we finally hear it. Again, thanks so much for your awesome review!**

 **Serendipitous- Your reviews have been a blessing! But since you've been reviewing as a guest, I do really hope you manage to find this story again. I'd hate to lose you as a reader.**


	9. Ambush

Chapter IX: Ambush

* * *

Ever slashed something? Ever slashed something through armor? It's hard. It's very, very hard. So hard, in fact, I drop my sword, misjudging how much force is required to penetrate the tough boiled leather. It clatters to the ground, clanging against the stone road. I suppose I expected it to cut right through, like a fine knife through a well-marbled steak. And thanks to this Risen's distinctly un-tender-steak-like armor, I have no weapon. Wonderful. "He can swing a sword," Robin said. "He can slash and dash." You lying bastard. If they weren't busy eviscerating Risen and I trying not to die, I'd throttle them right now.

The Risen whose armor I failed to slice through roars, bringing down its axe. I don't have time to react. Luckily, Risen don't seem to be the most accurate buggers around, and he misses, though only just. I find myself scrambling backwards, hiding behind my shield as I try to figure out how to retrieve my sword without getting a limb lopped off. The next blow bites into the wood of my shield. Sheer force and power buckle my knees. Christ, this guy hits like a heavyweight champion.

As he wrenches the axe back for another strike, my arm and shield go with it. I'm nearly lifted off the ground, standing on my tip toes. The Risen shakes his arm in a violent attempt to dislodge my shield and me from his axe. He stops for moment, fixing me with an empty glare. Red eyes bore into mine, seeing everything and nothing at once. Fear rises, a clammy chill that saps my willpower. The Risen uses his other hand to bring rotting, fetid fingers to my neck. I can hear his low, guttural sounds as his grip tightens, constricting my windpipe. Struggling and kicking, I try to break free. It's no use. He's far stronger. I'm just flailing at this point.

And then there's a lance coming out the side of his head.

A few seconds and the Risen dissipates into mist. I fall to the ground, coughing and spluttering and heaving for air. Above me Freya pulls the reins on her horse, keeping the steed steady. Her gaze is full of fury and fire, alight with the rage of battle. I've seen Freya fight before, but I don't think I realized her… intensity until now. She exudes an aura of courage, of ferocity.

Freya waves her lance. "Retreat into the woods, Michael!" she shouts. "It's time to go!"

I look around. She's right. The ambush was a success. Just as Robin said, the Risen numbers are down by about half. They were caught completely by surprise. The other Shepherds pull back, Virginie firing arrows while Robin and Miro cast jets of lightning and flame. Risen warriors begin giving chase, their formation thinning. Everything is exactly as Robin planned.

But I didn't do anything. I did less than nothing. I dropped my sword and nearly died. I'm just as incompetent as I thought I'd be. Watching the Shepherds, seeing how Freya and Chrom and Robin and all the rest handle themselves, I want to prove myself. It's stupid. It's reckless. It's insane. Yet, I swallow my terror and let adrenaline guide me as I grab my sword and lunge at the nearest Risen.

I know as soon as I make the move that it's a mistake. Robin specifically told me not to do something like this. There's no excuse. It's a moment of pure weakness I'll regret forever. It's simple insecurity, a foolish desire to show the Shepherds—and myself—that I belong here with them. Above all, it's anger that I needed saving.

My target deflects my clumsy attack almost nonchalantly. I barely even aimed, after all. By some miracle, the Risen's counter doesn't kill me. The lumbering, decaying monster buries its wickedly curved blade into my left shoulder. Blood splashes my clothes and paints the creature's face. My whole arm goes numb. Limp fingers let my sword slip. The Risen's blade makes a nauseating sound—wet and slick and fleshy—as it's removed. A patched boot pushes me down. This is the end. The final moment.

I don't want to die.

"Damnit! Michael!" I hear Freya's voice, but all I see are those cold red eyes. The Risen prepares to finish me. I'm paralyzed by the realest fear I've ever felt. There are no words to describe the feeling.

A flash of blue and silver followed by long chestnut hair crashes into the Risen. Freya and her horse. The monster is knocked off balance but recovers quickly, collecting itself with an unnatural cracking of joints. Freya turns her horse to make another pass. This time, however, the Risen is ready. Sidestepping in a bizarre, jerking maneuver, it manages to grasp Freya's boot and rip her from her stirrups. The knight grunts, landing hard. Her heavy armor works against her, giving Freya difficulty as she tries to rise. At this close range, Freya's lance is ineffective—the Risen is already well past its tip. She drops the polearm, drawing a short sword from her belt.

I shift a little, trying to crawl towards Freya, but the pain is too much. By now the Shepherds have reached the forest edge, and Risen are fast closing in on Freya and me. Over my good shoulder, I see Chrom standing several yards away, near the trees. She's watching in horror as the scene before her unfolds. Soon, Chrom snaps out of her momentary daze and begins rushing our direction, followed closely by Liston, Robin, and Vaiva.

Looking back at Freya, my eyes widen. She still isn't on her feet, instead parrying strikes while sliding backwards. The Risen unleashes a relentless assault, leaving Freya no room for error. She can't keep this up, not in her present position. It's only a matter of time—

One thrust.

That's how quick it is. The Risen's sword finds Freya's throat, stabbing deep.

"NO!" Chrom screams, arriving seconds too late. Robin and Vaiva make quick work of the Risen swordsman, but the damage is done. The blood leaking from my own wound feels insignificant now. A scarlet pool spreads out around Freya's head as her hands clutch at the gash on her neck. Horrible, haunting gurgling is the only noise she makes.

"Move, move! Give me space!" Liston cries. He kneels beside Freya, pressing the healing staff against her throat. Risen swarm toward us, forcing Robin and Vaiva to hold them off. Chrom joins the melee as well, swinging Falchion like a madwoman.

Robin shoots a thunderbolt before glancing back at Liston. "We need to head to cover! Can you move her?"

Liston doesn't look up to respond. "I'm not done! The wound… the wound is severe. I-I don't… Just please, give me more time!"

Robin shakes their head. "There is no time!" They turn to Vaiva and Chrom. "Vaiva, help me move Freya back to the forest. Chrom, you grab Michael!" Robin disengages and dashes over to Freya. Chrom and Vaiva have no choice but to follow Robin's orders.

Chrom takes me underneath both armpits and hauls me up. Intense pain radiates throughout my upper body. A wave of lightheadedness causes me to teeter. I must have lost more blood than I thought. Chrom practically drags me toward the forest, supporting most of my weight. I can't tear my eyes away from Freya. Liston desperately works with the staff as Robin and Vaiva carry Freya's slack form.

All the Risen are now focused on us. Though my awareness rapidly deteriorates, I estimate maybe fifteen or twenty remain. As we make our escape, I notice motion across the road. An arrow lodges in the back of a Risen's skull, followed closely by a fireball taking out two more. Sullivan, Stana, and Sumner ride in unison, Sumner's pegasus gliding just above the horses. The three of them slam into the Risen flank, immediately felling several. Kelda charges in a few seconds later, moving as fast as her bulky armor allows. The swift and brutal offensive, with ranged support from Virginie and Miro, proves decisive. Already crippled from the first ambush, the Risen crumble. Stana spears the last of them as Chrom lies me down in the grass.

The battle is won, but there's no celebration. Silence hangs in the air while Liston pours all his healing ability into treating Freya. I don't even care that no one is paying attention to me or the injury I received. The Shepherds gather around Liston and Freya, solemn faces rigid. Chrom's jaw clinches so tightly I can almost hear her teeth grinding.

It's my fault.

I repeat that over and over to myself, consciousness fading.

Freya, I'm so sorry.

I close my eyes and fall into the darkness.

* * *

When I awake, I'm alone inside a tent. From outside flickering orange firelight dances on the tent walls. I throw off the blanket draped over me, surveying my bare chest. My shoulder seems healed, but—like my abdomen—there's a scar and throbbing pain. Hopefully, I don't start making a habit of waking up like this.

I search the tent for a shirt, avoiding moving my shoulder too much. There's a folded tunic to my right, clean and absent any rips. Grimacing, I pull it over my head. The fabric is a bit itchy, but I can hardly complain.

The only thing on my mind is Freya. I went unconscious before knowing her fate. Did she survive? Did… Did… I don't want to think about the alternative. My stomach flips and flops in a queasy torrent. This isn't like the game where if a character dies you can just restart. Reality has no casual mode.

Freya is a human being. With emotions and desires and hopes and dreams. And I did this to her. It doesn't matter that we don't get along. It doesn't matter that she can't trust me. It doesn't matter. Period. All that matters is that this is my doing. If… If she died… She died protecting me. What a fucking worthless way to die. I'm scum. I acted exactly the way I wasn't supposed to. And why? To feel better about myself? What a joke.

I push open the tent flap, poking my head outside. Only one person sits at the fire: Robin. I don't hesitate before walking towards them—I have to know. Robin hears my approach, meeting my eyes with an impregnable stare. I stop in front of them, standing with my fists balled.

"Freya… Is… Is she…" I can't finish the sentence.

Robin sighs. "She's alive. Barely."

Relief. I'm overloaded with it. And then shame. So much shame. "Can… Can I see her?"

"Do you think she'd want you to?" Robin asks, frowning. "Besides, she's not awake yet."

My fingernails dig into my palms. "I have to apologize. It's my fault this happened."

"You're right."

"What?"

Robin adjusts their coat and fixes me an even look. "You're right," they repeat. "It is your fault."

Somehow, hearing it from Robin makes everything worse. It cuts in a way that Risen's sword never could. I can't reply. I just stand there lamely, arms dangling.

"You disobeyed my orders. You put the entire party at risk. You didn't think about anyone but yourself. And someone almost died for it." Robin pauses, the even expression morphing into anger, disgust. "These people have taken us in, given us a home, Michael. Look how you've repaid them."

I hang my head, unable to bear Robin's gaze any longer. "What am I supposed to do? How do I fix it?"

"I don't know, Michael." Robin runs a hand through their hair. "I don't know."

Defeated, I sit beside Robin, cradling my face in my hands. "I fucked up, Robin. I really fucked up," I say, feeling tears burn my eyes. "I'm a piece of shit."

"I don't know how you can make things right," Robin begins, staring into fire, watching it lick the air. "But I do know feeling sorry for yourself isn't the answer. Because you won't receive any sympathy. Not from me. Not from anyone. You want to fix things? Figure it out on your own."

We sit in silence for a long time, an oppressive quiet leaving me no reprieve from my thoughts. Self-hatred and pity is all I have. Robin wasn't wrong—this kind of thinking won't solve the situation. But I can't help it. It's a vicious cycle.

"Why are you here, Michael?"

The question jars me. I don't reply for a while, mulling over the words. "Because I have nowhere else to be."

"Wrong answer." Robin glares at me. "I'm here because I know I can make a difference. I'm here because I care about the Shepherds. I don't need to have known them long to feel this way. They… For someone like me, who doesn't have any memories, they're family."

I scowl. "Are you saying my reason for being here isn't good enough?"

Robin stands. "That's exactly what I'm saying."

I stand as well. "So, you think I don't care about the Shepherds?" My voice tightens.

The tactician regards me carefully. "I didn't say that. But do you care about them, about anyone, more than yourself?" Robin shakes their head and turns away. "I'm going to bed. It's been a long day. You should sleep too."

Robin leaves without another word. The weight, the implication, of what they said withers me. It's true. From the moment I arrived here, I've thought of nothing except myself. Everything I've done, every action I've taken—even saving Chrom's life, Agatha's life—I did for my own gain. Chrom told me that I became a Shepherd when I went into the fire after her. No, I didn't. I was just a guy too afraid to lose his meal ticket. And these feelings I have for her? Those are selfish too. Possessive. Scared. And Agatha? I didn't want to feel guilty later. I forced my way into the Shepherds because I felt entitled to be one. Robin never asked to be a Shepherd. They accepted the responsibility and understood intuitively the ramifications. Me? I just wanted to play at being a person I've never been.

Can I become that person? I have no idea. I have no idea how to be selfless or strong or brave or willing to sacrifice my own desires. I'm not sure it's even possible. But I want to. I want to change. I want to be a better man. Maybe that's why I'm here in this world. On Earth I never needed to be anything else.

The change starts with me taking ownership of my mistakes. Not to blame myself but to grow. Learn. To accept. I need to face Freya. Face Chrom. Whatever they say, whatever they want me to do, I will. Even if it means leaving the Shepherds. I'm done being an idiot. It's time to do things for the right reasons. I owe them that.

Pacing around the camp, I search for Freya's tent. I doubt she's in any state to speak, but I want to see the consequences of my actions. This isn't about forgiveness. It's about knowing just how much what I do affects others. After peeking inside a few tents, I find Freya. As Robin said, she's not awake. The gentle rise and fall of her chest reassures me that she's alive. Chrom sits beside her, cross-legged, neck bent low. Looks like she fell asleep in the position. I'm struck with the realization that Freya is likely Chrom's closest friend, a person she's known her entire life. I almost took that away.

As I step into the tent, Chrom jolts, blearily lifting her head. She rubs her eyes, turning my direction. Recognizing it's me, I expect her to get angry, to curse at me. She doesn't. Chrom merely wipes Freya's forehead with a damp cloth and tucks her blanket under her sides. She ignores me as I stand over the pair. My gaze drifts to Freya's throat. An ugly scar, long and misshapen mars her neck. Permanent, I'm sure. Liston must have given it everything he had just to ensure she lived.

"I'm sorry," I say flatly.

Chrom's response comes as a cold whisper. "Apologize to Freya, not me."

I bite my lip. "I will when she wakes up. But for now, I'm telling you."

"I don't need your apology. I don't want it."

My heel digs into the ground. "I'm not asking you to accept it. I'm not asking for forgiveness. I don't deserve that. I just want you to know I'm sorry."

Her eyes seem dull and drained. "Nothing you can say will change what happened."

"I know that. I also know that I have no right to call myself a Shepherd." I study Chrom's reaction.

She brushes Freya's cheek with her fingers. "Freya needs rest," Chrom says, opting to disregard my statement.

I seize the opportunity to offer what little I can. "Let me stay with her. _You_ need rest." My voice breaks. "Chrom… I… I want to do the right thing."

Chrom's hand trembles as she clutches Freya's blanket. "Then how… how could you let this happen? Why did you go after that Risen? You _know_ you can't fight. So, why, Michael? Why?" Tears fall into her lap.

"Because I'm selfish." I steel myself to go on. "I was more concerned with my own pride than accepting my shortcomings. You see, to me, it was just a means of satisfying my ego. And Freya paid for it. All of you did. But, Chrom, I can't be that person anymore. Not here. You all are too important."

She listens, lips wavering. "Michael," she says hoarsely. "I was _terrified_. For Freya. For you. Do you understand that?"

I nod stiffly. "I do now."

The two of us lock eyes. Chrom's brim with a swirling menagerie of emotions, the void from earlier lost. Anger. Fear. Confusion. Hurt. Disappointment. Sorrow. Her eyes tell everything she's feeling. Chrom is so honest, so straightforward and earnest. I can't let her down again.

"I told you… to retreat."

Chrom and I both look down at Freya. The knight props herself on her elbows, wincing. Chrom immediately starts fretting, placing her hands on Freya's shoulders. "Stay still! You don't have your strength back yet," Chrom says.

Freya shrugs off Chrom, groaning. "Michael." Freya's voice is scratchy, like someone who hasn't had water for a couple days. "You complete… utter… moron."

"I know," I agree. "I have no excuse."

Freya's mouth forms a thin line. "Milady," she croaks. "I request some time alone with this… with Michael."

Chrom glances between Freya and me, clearly debating if that's wise. "Are you sure?" she asks Freya.

"Positive." Freya's leer pierces to my core.

Exhaling, Chrom relents. "I'll be right outside." Soon, it's just Freya, myself, and the tension in the atmosphere.

I speak first. "Freya, I—"

"Silence."

I clam up instantly. She continues. "When I was a young girl, I often took walks in the forest outside my village. One day… One day, I ventured perhaps too far, and a mountain wolf set upon me. I lay on the ground for many hours before a villager found me. Such grievous wounds made it unlikely I would survive. However, I recovered. Though, I have never forgotten what it feels like to believe death has come."

Of course. The wolf. Frederick—Freya—talks about it in a support conversation.

Freya never breaks eye contact. "When that foul abomination thrust its blade into my neck, I felt that sensation once again. I always believed I would die in the service of milady and lord, protecting them from harm. I would be content to die such a death. Never did I imagine to die saving some fool from his own stupidity."

The speech destroys me. I say the only thing I can. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"Do you know what the last thing to go through my mind was?" Freya asks. " _I hope he turns into someone worth dying for_. That's what I thought."

I drop to my knees, entirely dismantled. She didn't die, but I'm alive because of her nevertheless. "Then why did you risk your life for me?" I almost don't want the answer.

"It's what a knight does," she says plainly. "And…. I was indebted to you for reviving milady."

My fists shake. "Freya. Nothing justifies what I did. What I forced you into. If… If you want me to leave the Shepherds, just say the word. I'll go."

Deep brown eyes sweep over me. "No."

I blink, surprised. "You don't want me to leave?"

Freya touches her new scar, tracing the lines. "Nothing would please me more. But I don't decide who stays and who goes. And I know milady won't cast you out."

"Thank you. For saving my life. I didn't deserve it. From now on, I will do everything in my power to change. To become someone you can respect," I vow, determined to move forward as a new man. Or at least trying to be one.

She wheezes, a breathy sound. "We shall see." Her eyes harden. "Now, get out of my sight.

Freya doesn't need to tell me twice. I've overstayed my welcome. With a dip of the head, I make my exit. I catch Chrom with her ear pressed against the tent. She jumps back. Her expression tells me she heard every word. We don't speak. There's no need. I trudge across the campground, knowing I have a long road ahead.

After the events of the day, I won't be able to sleep. Too much going on upstairs. I walk to the edge of the camp, straining my eyes against the dark to see where we are in relation to the road. The group must have found a clearing somewhere in the woods, since all I see are the shadowed figures of trees. Absently, I wonder what became of my sword and shield. One of the Shepherds probably collected them. I suppose the gambeson is ruined. Oh well. It's not like I'll be fighting in any battles soon.

I think back to the training sword I busted. I'm supposed to be making those, aren't I? I promised Freya. I'm not a fighter, and I don't know when I'll be one. But I can contribute the right way. The way I said I would. That sword was two basic parts: a faux blade connected by a dowel to a hilt and handle. Some kind of medieval adhesive held it in place. Miro can likely get me some. The rest is basic whittling. I just need the wood and tools. Easy.

Resolved, I raise my eyes to the sky. Obviously, I don't recognize any stars. It's whole different universe out there. But it's where I am. Where I'll be from now on. I have so much to learn. This isn't a game, and it's not some fairy tale adventure. My choices and my actions matter more than ever before.

Under this new set of stars, I must forge a new life, a worthy life.

* * *

 **Author's Note: Whew! I have to say, that was the most difficult chapter to write so far. But I also think it's the best one I've written. Michael reached a major turning point. He's got to grow up. I hope all of you are ready to go with him on this long, long journey! And just in case anyone was wondering, the inspiration for Robin's battle tactics in this chapter (before Mike screwed it up) comes from the Battle of Teutoburg Forest fought in 9 CE between the Romans and an alliance of Germanic tribes. The Germanic commander, Arminius (German name "Hermann"), defeated a far numerically superior Roman force by ambushing them as the legion made its way down a narrow forest path.**

 **I'd like to thank all my readers for their support and encouragement. You make writing this story so much more rewarding. Every follow, favorite, and review is a blessing. Nagaspeed, my friends.**

 **Also, if you haven't already, please give _Birth and Re-Death_ by ThreeDollarBratwurst a read. It's an excellent fic and one of the most refreshing FEA SIs in ages!**

 **Clutchvm- I missed it too! It's great to be back, and I appreciate your support more than ever! As for Michael's "class," I suppose right now it's "scrub." XD But don't worry. He'll continue to develop.**

 **Yexius- I'm glad I've hooked you! Oh, you can expect more Robin shenanigans to come. They won't give up their gender so easily.**

 **Shippersaurus- Wow, I'm really flattered you made an account just for that. Kind of makes my day, actually. As for the timeline… Well, stay tuned to find out!**

 **Darpy- Thank you so much! There's more to come!**


	10. Whittling Away

Chapter X: Whittling Away

* * *

With Freya still recovering from her injury—and Chrom insisting she remain bedridden—the Shepherds temporarily halt the advance toward Regna Ferox. I can't help but feel entirely responsible. I just hope the delay doesn't cause any unforeseen issues. Wisely, Chrom orders hourly patrols along the camp perimeter to ensure no Risen catch us unaware. So far it's peaceful, but Vaiva and Sullivan still prowl about as if every moment is a potential moment to skewer some undead dirt bags.

As for me, I've been using the time to begin work on my first training sword. After a brief stroll through the woods, I managed to locate a broad oak. Cutting down the whole tree wasn't an option (not to mention a complete waste of wood), so I hacked off a low-hanging branch using a borrowed axe from Vaiva. The thickness was perfect, and the quality of the wood outstandingly good for a random tree. I spent several hours stripping the bark alone. It was definitely a new experience working with wood not from a hardware store.

I'm now whittling the basic shape of a blade after having cut the branch into two pieces, one for the handle and hilt and the other being the one in my hands. My own sword serves as the model for this project, and I glance back and forth between it and the wood. I don't know who retrieved it from the battlefield, but I found it among the other supplies with the horses. Guess no one wanted to give it me personally. Not that I'm surprised. The Shepherds are avoiding me like I reek of rotten eggs.

The only one of them that's even spoken to me since last night has been Vaiva, and only because I directly asked her to lend me her axe. She didn't seem particularly keen to associate with me, but once I explained why I wanted it, Vaiva agreed. Other than that, the best I've gotten was a half-hearted smile from Sumner. Which, of course, made it worse. Leave it to nicest guy on the planet, the guy I treated like shit, to show some friendliness to the one person who doesn't deserve it.

I bury my thoughts in the woodworking, letting the pace and rhythm of the motions guide me into a trance. Pieces of oak fall away as the blade takes form, wider at the base and tapering into a blunt point. The dowel extending from the center of the flat bottom causes trouble, a challenging part that can't be too thin or too wide. Thankfully, my knife is sharp and precise, making the task bearable.

Surveying the product, I frown. So rough. Gauges from the knife pockmark the surface, resulting in an uneven sight. A hand planer would solve the problem, but I have no idea how to acquire one. Freya almost certainly has one, considering she made the training swords previously, but asking her is out of the question. That leaves purchasing or crafting. Also no goes, since I have no money and no ability to create something so specific.

I sigh. Might as well just focus on the hilt and handle and forget about it for now. I stare at the wooden chunk, envisioning the finished piece. Nothing fancy. Simple, like my sword. Plain crossguard and a hollowed-out handle for the dowel. That's the hard part. In the modern world, this is easy. A plunge router or drill press takes seconds. Here, though? I'm stuck using a sharp chisel to methodically bore through the wood. A major pain in the ass.

An hour later and I've carved the rudimentary shape of the hilt and handle. Time to chisel. Another hour. My hand hurts like hell. My fingers spasm. And it's not even close to done. I set the wood aside, massaging my hand. Red and raw skin greets me when I inspect it. Future blisters. Lovely.

"Oi. How goes the construction, master woodworker?"

The gruff voice startles me. I look up to see Sullivan glaring down at me, arms folded across his chest. His words have an unmistakable antagonistic lilt. Profound powers of observation aren't required to tell he's less than thrilled with me. Still, I humor him, answering politely.

"Well, I have the basic shapes done, but the finer details are hard. I and still have to connect the blade and hilt. Plus—"

Sullivan waves his hand. "I don't really care much about all that. Look, I got a better idea to pass the time while we're stuck here." His expression seems a tad menacing.

I knit my brows warily. "Which is?"

He smirks. "Oh, just some sparring. Figured I'd teach you a couple tricks. Gods know you ain't exactly real capable."

Ah. He wants an excuse to kick my ass. Fair enough. It _is_ Sullivan, after all. Probably thinks I got off lightly. Which I did. After Freya, this feel like justice. Righteous justice.

"Fine," I say, standing and brushing wood chips off my clothes. "Where are the training weapons?"

Sullivan's mouth curves into a devious grin. "We're not using those," he grunts, slapping a fist into his palm. "It's all fists for us. Fella like you who has trouble holding onto his sword, I think you oughta learn to fight unarmed."

Old school beatdown, I see. Classic. This is gonna hurt. I've earned it, though. If knocking the piss out of me makes Sullivan feel better, so be it. I won't run away. I want his respect. I want all the Shepherds to trust me again. If I can win back even a tiny fraction of what I lost by doing this, then I will.

I shrug at him. "Suits me just as well." I look around the camp. "Is there someplace you have in mind?"

The red knight practically emanates aggression. "Right here's fine," he says, removing his breastplate and gauntlets. "Let's go! Show me your stance, rookie."

Bracing myself, I adopt my best Rocky Balboa. To be fair, I'll probably be blocking with mostly my face too. Sullivan beckons me forward using a taunting hand. Apparently, I get the embarrassment of making the first move as well. My opponent's posture is flawless, but he could be doing the chicken dance and still look intimidating with those biceps.

I approach cautiously, guard up and elbows in—pretty much the extent of my boxing knowledge. Sullivan bounces on his heels and rolls his neck. "Right, rookie, take a swing. Show me that form."

Here goes nothing. I decide to jab, throwing the fastest punch I can at Sullivan's nose. He dodges my sluggish strike, ducking under and bringing his fist into my gut with a fearsome uppercut. The air blows out my lungs, and I hit the ground a spluttering, gasping mess. I double over, clutching my waist while I spit into the grass. Goddamn, Sullivan.

"See, you're too slow, rookie! Get up! Let's go again," he rumbles, stepping back. He's enjoying this.

It's several seconds before I rise. Bastard hits fucking hard. I can't keep the tremor from my knees as I take up my stance again. Still, I shuffle forward, aiming my strike at his chest this time. He sidesteps deftly, extending a foot to sweep my leg. Poor balance lands me flat on my back.

Sullivan lets out a disdainful snort. "You're doing it all wrong! Up! Get up!"

We go at it like this for a while, me failing to land a single attack while Sullivan gets increasingly creative with his counters. He's just put me on my ass with an elbow to the ribs when he leans down and plucks me up by my collar.

"The hell's with you, punk?!" he snarls. "You a failure at everything?"

Robin's words from last night ring in my mind: " _But I do know feeling sorry for yourself isn't the answer. Because you won't receive any sympathy. Not from me. Not from anyone. You want to fix things? Figure it out on your own."_ The Shepherds, and certainly Sullivan, aren't going to hold my hand. I can lie here like a sad sack, or I can take one more step towards changing. I choose the latter.

"YES SIR!" I bellow and bring my forehead into Sullivan's face with a mighty _crack_. Lights explode in my vision as he reels, clutching his head. Sullivan drops my shirt, and I crawl away, tearing up grass, struggling to stand.

The burly cavalier groans. "Son of a… You… You broke my nose!" Sure enough, blood trickles out one nostril, and the bridge of his nose bends unnaturally. I don't have much time to process what this means for me before Sullivan unloads a barrage of punches into my jaw and cheek. Blood oozes past my lips as I roll over, dazed. Through my hazy eyesight, I see Sullivan wiping underneath his nose and gingerly touching the skin.

I can't give up. Sullivan needs to know I'm serious. I'm not going to beat him. It's not about that, though. It's not about fighting. It's not about pride or ego. It's about identity. Who am I? Who am to Sullivan? Am I the one who quits, who lets his friends down, who ruins things? Or am I the one who stands up when things are tough, the one who may not be the strongest or the smartest but always does what he can. I'm not there yet. But I can stand up right now.

So, I do. Sullivan watches me rise, eyes widening. "Well," I cough. "We aren't done, are we?"

He blinks before breaking into a toothy smile, the malice from earlier subdued. "You got a pair of brass ones, don'tcha?" He cracks his knuckles. "Alright. Game on."

Sullivan prepares to charge when an angry voice cuts through the air. "What on Naga's earth is going on here?!"

We freeze and turn, catching sight of Chrom marching at us, a furious expression painted on her face. She plants her feet firmly a couple yards away, fixing us with alternating glares. Chrom's blazing gaze settles on me. "Michael! What are you doing? Is this your idea of changing? Starting fights? Acting like a common ruffian?" She shifts toward Sullivan. "And you! Sullivan, you're better than this! You should be setting an example. I don't care what—"

"Captain," Sullivan interjects, casting me a sidelong glance first. "Michael didn't start it. I did."

I'm ready to let Chrom blame me, to accept whatever punishment she doles out. Take responsibility for my actions. Sullivan's admission is unexpected. It's the truth, but he has no reason to defend me.

Chrom balks. It stings a little, seeing how convinced she is I instigated things. "Excuse me?"

Sullivan scratches his cheek. "He didn't start the fight," the cavalier says. "OK, well, he threw the first punch but only 'cuz I made him. I'm the one who asked to spar."

She gestures at our (well, mostly my) bloodied forms. "You call this sparring? Sullivan… I don't even know what to say."

He looks mildly ashamed. "You don't have to say anything, Captain. I just wanted to teach Michael a lesson. But I know it was wrong."

"Gods above," Chrom grumbles. "I'm going to get Liston. You two stay here. And please, don't kill each other!"

The princess strides toward the center of camp, shaking her head and muttering. Sullivan plops down, sighing and spreading his legs. I follow suit, my entire body aching in protest. It hurts just to move at this point. Sullivan did a number on me. I steal a glance his direction, watching him ruffle his crimson hair. He didn't have to tell Chrom any of that. It's not like I was going to argue. Sullivan could've let me take the fall.

"You broke my nose," he repeats from earlier, though not as an accusation, more a statement of fact.

"You broke my face," I reply.

He laughs roughly. If bears could laugh, I imagine they might sound similar. "I didn't think you'd get up after that."

I shrug. "Well, I did." I tap my thumb on the back of my other hand. "You stuck up for me."

"I just said what happened. Nothing else to it." Sullivan looks away.

"Thanks." I smile at the ground.

I hear him blow a stream of air. "Rookie, you may be a goat's hairy arsehole, but you got spirit. I'll give you that."

My smile fades, and I try to choose my words carefully. "Sullivan, I know I have a lot to make up for. And I know you're angry. But you better believe that I intend to become the best I can."

"Heh," he breathes. "Somehow, I don't doubt that."

We recline in comfortable silence until Chrom returns with Liston in tow. As the he heals us, he rants about our stupidity while Chrom looks on in agreement. Watching Sullivan's nose magically snap into place is grotesquely fascinating. My own healing goes smoothly, and the soothing numbness of the magic washes away most of the pain. After some experimental flexing, I determine my body is fully recovered. I murmur a thank you that Liston promptly ignores. He stomps off, calling us "bozo nincompoops."

I brace myself for Chrom's impending lecture, but it never comes. She eyes us, scowling, the steely glare lingering on me a bit longer. It's clear she wants to say something yet thinks better of it. Maybe a couple of idiots like us aren't worth wasting the words. However, I get the sensation it has more to do with last night than anything else. Eventually, she just heaves a massive sigh and tells us to carry on. I chew the inside of my cheek. I almost wish we'd been verbally flogged instead.

Sullivan and I part ways, a kind of mutual understanding between us. In Sullivan's world, I suppose fisticuffs is the best form of communication. Despite how Chrom reacted, I feel good about how I've left it with Sullivan. He's the type of person who appreciates wholehearted effort. He knows I'm at least trying. I can't ask for more than that at present.

Going back to chiseling the handle proves impossible; there's no energy in my fingers, no love pouring into the wood. My uncle always said no great woodworker ever made anything worthwhile without love for the process. I believe him. The first thing I built—a television stand—royally sucked. But when I looked at it, I saw the time and care and passion I expended during its creation. Only that mattered. The journey.

Before I realize it, my feet carry me to the edge of the clearing. Birds chirp, and squirrels nibble on fallen nuts. It's a tranquil sight, starkly contrasted with the bloodshed of yesterday. Chrom and the others fight to protect this world, to keep scenes like this innocent snapshot of forest life from destruction. An image of Freya writhing on the ground, her life slipping away, enters my mind. Something like that can never happen again. Ylisse, the whole planet even, depends on people like her.

A muffled sound, like a rustling of leaves, drags me from my thoughts. Tentative, I peer around the nearest tree trunk. Standing with his back against a sturdy maple, Sumner mangles a daisy, plucking its petals one at a time. I see his lips move but can't hear the words. Meaning to quietly withdraw, I inadvertently crunch a twig beneath my boot. Sumner's whole body whips around, and he drops the flower hastily.

"M-Michael!" he squeaks. "You startled me. What, er, brings you out here?" Sumner does his best to lean casually against the tree. He fails.

I rub my shoulder. "Nothing. I was just taking a walk. Didn't mean to interrupt your," I say, pausing to glance at the fallen daisy, "flower… time." Awkward.

The pegasus knight reddens. "You… saw that?" he asks. "It's not what it looks like!"

Dear God. This guy is hopeless. "And what does it look like?" I stare at him blankly. "Because to me it just seemed like a dude ripping apart a flower." Take it, man! Take the escape I'm offering you!

"Y-Yes! That's exactly what it was!" He nods vigorously. "Sometimes, you simply must tear up a flower, you know!" Right, Sumner. Right.

He trains his eyes on the ground, looking sheepish. I feel like a total dickhead for acting like I did during our first meeting. Just a jealous prick. Sumner loves Chrom. Truly loves her. And he's a great guy. Time to apologize.

"Listen, Sumner," I start, wringing my hands together. "I'm sorry. When we met at the barracks, I was an ass to you. You're a good person, and you didn't deserve that."

Sumner cocks his head, fixing me a quizzical look. "Honestly, I'd forgotten all about that, Michael. You were tired, right? Everyone gets a little grumpy when they're like that."

Damn you. Stop being so pure! "No, I'm serious. I want you to know I regret acting that way. It was wrong." I hesitate, feeling emotions welling up. What else can I say? To Sumner, this isn't a big deal, but to me it's another fuck up. Another error that needs correction.

As his face remains placidly bemused, I rack my brain for something to show my sincerity. What can I do for Sumner? Suddenly, I know. My heart pangs in reluctance, and that tells me it's the right thing to do.

"You should go for it," I say, not knowing how else to broach the topic.

His confusion deepens. "Beg pardon?"

"Chrom. You should tell her how you feel. I think… I _know_ she'd be happy."

Sumner's expression morphs into one of frenzied panic. "W-W-What?! I-I-I don't—"

What a goober. "Dude. You stare at her like 24/7. You stutter incoherently when talking to her. It's obvious to anyone with eyes that you like her."

He gesticulates wildly, hands flying everywhere. "S-S-She's my Captain! Of course I l-like her!"

I rub my face. "As a woman, you marshmallow."

"Marsh… No! T-That's not appropriate! I could never…" He stops, sighing. "Please don't tell her."

"I won't," I say. "But you will."

Sumner blanches at the thought. This is for the best. Women like Chrom aren't especially common. One of a kind, really. Strong and beautiful and heartfelt. Always willing to help. Always moving forward. Sumner should be with her.

"Sumner." I keep my voice soft, curbing the usual abrasiveness. "After yesterday… I realized a lot of important things. So many things I need to work on. Life is… fragile. I've been living mine the wrong way. My point is you have to do all you can limit your regrets. I guess… I guess I don't want you to regret not saying anything."

He listens patiently, embarrassment giving way to pensive acknowledgment. "I'm not sure I'm brave enough," he admits.

I shake my head. "You are. I'm not saying go do it right now. Just make sure you plan to."

Sumner breathes deeply. "OK. I… will."

"Good." I rock on my heels. "I, uh, should get back to camp."

"Michael," Sumner says. I halt mid-turn. "Thank you."

I make a hasty retreat, leaving Sumner with a nod. As I walk, a smile dares to grow upon my lips. I feel… better. Our conversation motivates me, and I resume sculpting the handle of the training sword. Sunset tints the sky orange by the time I've finally hollowed out the wood enough to fit the dowel. I close my eyes, soaking in the satisfaction.

I think about Sullivan and Sumner. I'm lucky. I'm lucky to be surrounded by a group of people like the Shepherds. Hell, I'm lucky to even be alive. The Shepherds have given me so much. So much to someone like me. More than anything, though, they've given me purpose. In life, that may be the most valuable commodity of all. I'll never survive here without it.

"Shepherds!"

Chrom's commanding voice booms across the camp. I turn to see her standing atop a tree stump, Freya not far behind. The knight, while pale, assumes a steady posture. Guess she convinced Chrom to let her out of the tent. Unsurprising. Lying in bed is about as un-Freya as it gets. She rides ahead to sweep pebbles from the road, after all.

The Shepherds gather near Chrom. Everyone looks relieved that Freya is up and about. I hang back, within earshot but providing ample space. Freya and I meet eyes regardless; her cold, venomous glare forces my gaze to Chrom instead.

Once the Shepherds settle down, Chrom addresses the group. "After some… deliberation," she says, shooting Freya a pointed look that speaks volumes, "I have decided we will move out tomorrow at first light. Make sure you all get a good night's sleep. Regna Ferox is still several days away. Understood?"

"Yes, Captain!" comes the collective response.

Chrom nods. "Good! Dismissed!"

As they disperse, Chrom strides toward me. I suppress a wave of anxiety. She roots herself a few feet away, demeanor all business.

"After the battle with the Risen, the issue of your training has become more pressing than ever," she says curtly. "I'm aware that I told you I would teach you myself, but Freya has insisted I entrust her with the responsibility instead. Starting tomorrow, you will report to daily sessions after camp is made."

Shock sets in rapidly. Freya training me? What the shit? Surely, she wants absolutely nothing to do with me after her injury?

"But—"

"This isn't a request, Michael," Chrom says, cutting me short. "Freya is the most skilled soldier I know. You're in more than capable hands."

I resist the urge to protest further. Over Chrom's shoulder, Freya watches me, as if issuing a silent challenge. This is going to be hell. Fiery, agonizing hell. But I shouldn't complain. This is a necessity.

"I understand," I say. Chrom dips her head and turns away. I reach out and touch her pauldron. Her ocean blue eyes search mine. "Chrom… I won't let you down."

She doesn't answer, holding my gaze a while longer before leaving. Chrom disappears into her tent, and I return to my place on the ground, picking up the training sword handle and hilt once again.

I trace the grain patterns with my index finger. This morning it was nothing more than a tree branch. Soon, it'll be a fine training sword, a tool that will see many, many hours of use. I made progress today.

Progress.

Little by little.

Day by day.

I'll make progress.

* * *

 **Author's Note: Mike is learning! Slowly, but surely! Change doesn't come overnight, as Mike knows. This chapter was a bit more laid back than previous chapters; I wanted to give screen time to Sullivan and Sumner while Mike dealt with the aftermath of his actions. Of course, now he has training with Freya to look forward to! RIP Mike.**

 **Once again, a huge thank you to all my supporters! You make this a joy. It's so exciting to watch this story gain momentum! Alrighty, review responses!**

 **Shippersaurus- Intense is what I was going for! Glad I hit the mark. Also, I personally love Freya/Frederick, so expect Mike and her to flesh out their complex relationship.**

 **Serendipitous- You have no idea how glad I am to see you review again! Your support is important to me, and I great appreciate your feedback. I'm happy to hear you approve of Mike's development. He's still got a long way to go, but it's progress!**

 **RequiemAnon- Holy ravioli! You reviewed every chapter! Thank you so, so much! Follows and favorites are wonderful, but reviews are the lifeblood. And you made me one happy camper with all those reviews!**

 **Caellach Tiger Eye- Once again, your incredibly detailed and thoughtful review provided a lot of insight and gave me much to think about. Your analysis of Mike and what we've seen so far in the story is right on point. From the very beginning, I've wanted to portray him as flawed yet relatable. Avoiding Stu-ness was my first priority, but I also wanted it to be abundantly clear that he was quickly digging himself a deeper and deeper hole. I'm extremely glad that it seems to be paying off now that his character arc is in full swing. Also, I was pleased to see you make the connection to Marth being female. As you said, it speaks to a deeper, more pervasive level to the changes Mike is seeing. So, no, you are not overthinking this. Keep it in the back of your mind. Finally, I have a name for M!Lucina chosen already (names were the first thing I did for this fic). Your expectations are clearly high, and when all is revealed, I think I can say with confidence that you will at the very least approve of that specific naming. Again, so much thanks for the reviews. Your detail is unmatched.**

 **And to the guest who attempted to flame me- you're* ;)**


	11. Crystal Unclear

Chapter XI: Crystal Unclear

* * *

When Chrom said I'd be in capable hands with Freya, I think she may have meant "sadistic hands." Training is brutal, a ceaseless pattern of exercise and rigorous discipline. Any mistake earns me a swift and merciless punishment. Her expression remains stoic as she doles out more laps around the camp, more pushups, more squats. When I falter, she barks scathing reminders about my well-below adequate performance. There are apparently chamber maids with greater prowess. If I complain, even just an off-hand remark, Freya denies me water. At the end of a session, long after the sun sets, I receive a grade. So far, it's been "fifty" each day. In the Ylissean education system—according to Miro (I explained my ignorance as due to being a country bumkin)—pupils accumulate points for erroneous acts within a given time period. Under five is considered exemplary, twenty-five the cutoff for average, and forty very poor. Fifty marks the end of the scale, when a student must undergo evaluation to determine whether they're to be expelled or not.

Unfortunately for me, it simply means I am a pathetic excuse for a Shepherd and must suffer accordingly until otherwise.

Today's the fourth day of training, and my body throbs in dull agony. Last night, Freya forced me to wear her armor (a snug fit given our similar heights) while I sprinted repeatedly from one end of camp to the other. No light jogging allowed. Afterwards, I polished each piece until she decided the gleam was acceptable. The Devil himself only knows what torture she's prepared this evening.

As the other Shepherds finish erecting tents and settle down to rest after the day's march, Freya approaches me. I suppress the gnawing apprehension bubbling inside. She's shed her armor, instead wearing only the formal suit underneath. The snappy attire compliments her austere demeanor—black jacket with blue rimmed lapels, white shirt and a navy ribbon tied into an elegant bow around her collar, and dark pants completing the ensemble. I silently pray she won't make me do armor-clad runs again.

"Michael," she says in a clipped tone.

I return the strained greeting. "Freya."

She clears her throat. "Today, we shall focus upon the fundamental rules of combat."

A glimmering spark of hope rises in my chest. No running? No bodybuilding? "You mean I won't be doing exercise until I collapse?" I ask.

Freya frowns as if I've just said something profoundly stupid. "Those are basic strength and stamina drills. Obviously, you must do them daily. Your first three days have merely been an introduction to the routine."

Oh, you've got to be kidding me. "Let me get this straight," I start, leaning in slightly. "You're telling me all that nightmarish shit has just been fucking _practice_? A warmup?"

"Correct," she says bluntly. "Though, I would not have described it with such… vulgarity."

"What the fuuuuuck," I whine.

She scowls. "Do you expect to obtain the endurance, agility, and power of a warrior overnight?" Freya snaps. "Your body is your most crucial weapon. We must train your physique as well as martial skills."

I know she's right, but I feel like arguing anyways. "Well, that shit takes hours. How are we supposed to have time for the 'fundamental rules of combat?'"

"Perhaps if you were not so slow and so weak and protest so much, time would not be a point of concern." The knight looks smug.

Damn. It's harsh to hear it laid out so plainly. The truth hurts, man. "Whatever," I sigh. "Let's just do the exercises."

Freya marshals me through her gauntlet of doom, pushing harder than the previous days. Because of the backtalk, no doubt. I remind myself never to question Freya's wisdom again—the consequences are too horrifying. When she wanders off for a moment and returns with her armor, I want to lie back and accept the sweet embrace of death. I swear the ghost of a smile plays on her lips as she watches me do jumping jacks in heavy plate. Yeah, one-hundred percent a sadist. Not that I don't deserve it.

During a pass of the camp, I trip, the weight of Freya's greaves taking a toll. She's by my side in an instant, blaring in my ear to keep moving. I grit my teeth, mustering some deep reservoir of energy to continue. Like I'd give her the satisfaction of conceding. Besides, I have no choice. Too much is at stake, and I can't afford to be slacking. Whenever the urge to rest rears it's ugly head, I picture Chrom or Sumner or any one of the Shepherds bleeding out because of my failings. Come on, Mike. Don't stop. Fight.

When Freya finally calls an end to the workout, I fall onto my hands and knees, upheaving the contents of my stomach. I retch for a while, hacking up phlegm once nothing else is left. Freya stands above donning an imperious expression. She waits patiently as I recover, gradually easing myself into a sitting position. Wiping the sweat streaking down my face, I look up to see her extending a waterskin towards me. I guzzle greedily. It might as well be nectar from the gods.

"I hope you have not forgotten the lesson is not yet over," Freya says.

Right. There's more. Yay. "Give… me… a sec," I puff, trying to regain use of my currently jellified legs. Shakily, I stand.

"Turn around," she orders, though she's spinning me herself before I can. Freya fiddles with the clasps of the armor, undoing them with a practiced hand. Taking armor like hers off (and putting it on) is a two-person job. I'm not sure who helps Freya when she wears it. Chrom maybe? No, she'd never ask her liege to do something like that. Stana? Knitting my brows, I realize I don't see Freya interact with many people other than her charges. Well, outside professional duties, I suppose. Chrom's deputy is one serious lady.

Freya dismantles the last of the armor, setting it aside in an organized pile. I note the flecks of dirt and grime staining the metallic surfaces. More polishing for me. I curse myself for letting it get like that.

"What do you believe is the most important element in combat?" Freya asks, circling around to face me.

Shit, I don't know. Being awesome? "Aren't there a lot of things—"

I blink and recoil as Freya's open palm connects with my cheek. "Awareness," she says flatly.

"Hey! Don't—" Another slap. I rub my cheek and glare at Freya.

"The battlefield is always chaos. If you are not aware, then you are dead. You must be ever vigilant. You must expect the unexpected. A single lapse may cost you your life." She gives me a stony stare. "Or another's."

A couple slaps hardly matter when it's put into perspective so clearly. "So, how do I become more aware?"

Freya lifts her hand. I flinch. She brings the hand back to her side. "As I just demonstrated, you are already more aware than before," she explains. "However, you need to learn to study your surroundings to anticipate what may happen."

"Guess you just slap me a bunch of times until I can predict the future then."

My attempt at comic relief goes unappreciated. "This is no laughing matter." Freya sighs sharply. "Close your eyes."

"What?" I prefer to see the slap coming, thank you.

"Just do as I say."

"OK, OK…" I close my eyes, tensing up.

I hear Freya shift her feet. "Tell me what you sense. What you feel."

What am I, a Jedi? "I have no clue. I _feel_ like an idiot," I say, trying not to crack open an eye.

"Michael, pay attention!" she hisses. "Listen. Describe what you hear."

I bite back a retort and instead attempt to "pay attention." What _do_ I hear? The crackling of the campfire. An owl hooting in the distance. Wind stirring up leaves. I relay the information to Freya.

"What else?" she presses.

Crickets chirping, looking for mates. Water lapping against stones in a nearby stream or creek. The whinnies of the horses and pegasus. Freya's calm breathing only a few feet away…

I open my eyes. "Well, there's a lot of stuff going on. Some crickets are doing their thing. I think there's maybe some running water around here? And then there's the horses… You know, just stuff. Nighttime sounds."

"I didn't tell you to stop." Freya frowns in disapproval. "But yes. Those are the main things. When you allow your senses to expand, naturally you gain greater awareness."

"I never knew you were so Zen," I say, smirking a little.

"Zen?" the knight asks, as if testing the word.

I wave a hand. "Don't worry about it." Earth terms. Whoops. "Anyways, this is cool and all, but I can't exactly close my eyes in the middle of a battle."

She scoffs. "Daft, as usual. A soldier must have complete control of the senses. You only noticed these sounds when you could no longer rely upon sight. Your awareness is incomplete."

The crickets chirp as if she's told a horrible joke. Except I'm the joke. Ha. Ha.

Point taken. "Alright. What's the plan?"

"Awareness can be trained at all times. Therefore, you will be training at all times. I will make sure of it." Well, that's ominous. "Our evening lessons will apply the concept to combat."

Nervousness creeps through me, a prickling unease. "You mean sparring?"

Freya shakes her head. "You aren't ready for that. Mastering the basics comes first."

I nod, feeling a smidge relieved. As much as I want to become a qualified Shepherd, my own limitations bother me. It's undoubtedly best to take baby steps. Freya goes on about the training regimen, outlining specifics. None of it seems pleasant. Especially looking forward to the bit involving shifting from different battle stances while Freya pelts me with rocks. Nothing says "character building" like an old-fashioned stoning. Jokes aside, I understand the reasoning. Concentration is just another part of awareness. There are worse things than rocks coming at you in a fight.

The session concludes with a thorough cleaning of Freya's armor. Moonlight reflects off the smooth curves, reminding me just how long we've been out here. The only Shepherd awake is Virginie, who keeps vigil at the edge of camp with her trusty bow. Guard duty. I stifle a yawn and look back to Freya. Does this woman even need sleep?

After inspecting my work, Freya wraps the armor into a bundle of cloth. The way she gently binds it together resembles affection. Must be plenty of nostalgia attached to those hunks of steel. She pats the bundle as if commending it for a job well done.

"So," I venture. "What's my score, boss?"

She hums lightly. "Forty-nine." Freya pauses. "And a half."

I've never been so happy to be half a point away from failing in my life. It's an abysmal score, almost as bad as it gets. But it's not fifty. "For real?" I ask, incredulity tempering my elation.

"Indeed. You weren't a _complete_ waste of space tonight." Savage. "But only just." Even more savage.

I can't help it—I smile. Who knows when my score will improve next? I'd do a jig if my limbs didn't feel like putty. Freya catches on to my giddiness quickly and responds with an irritated sigh. My smile sags. I summon the courage to ask a question that's been irking me since we started training.

"Why are you doing this?" I meet her eyes. "Training me."

Freya barely takes a second. "Because you are not worth milady's time," she says, folding her arms. "I would rather shoulder the burden myself than see her expend the effort."

What kind of answer did you think she'd give, Mike? _Oh, I just believe in you so much!_ Yeah, right. She hates my guts. If I was in her shoes, I'd hate me too.

A wave of fatigue swamps me. This conversation probably won't end well anyhow. "Thanks," I say dryly. "Well, if we're done here, I'm headed to bed." I brush past her. Freya doesn't reply, but I feel her eyes follow me all the way to my tent.

Inside, enveloped within a cocoon of darkness, I sink into my bedroll. Exhaustion claims me almost instantly, and I enter a deep and dreamless slumber.

* * *

Awareness training turns out to consist of Freya scaring the ever-loving shit out of me whenever she pleases. Walking peacefully while lost in thought? Bam, Freya. Talking to someone? Bam, Freya. Working on my wooden sword? Bam, Freya. Taking a piss? Bam, Freya. Doesn't matter what I'm doing, for the last two days she's found a way to sneak up and—

"Michael."

"HOLY FUCK BALLS!" I leap into the air at the sound of Freya's voice right behind my ear.

"Your lack of composure is as disappointing as always." She makes a _tsk_.

Letting her move to my side, I see her horse a few yards back, Sullivan holding the reins. He snickers at my misfortune as he rides in tandem with Freya's mount. Her surprise attacks are quickly becoming one of the most entertaining features of the march. Much to my chagrin.

"How do you keep getting me like this?" I leer at her, pouting slightly.

"The better question is how you keep failing to notice me." Her gaze is entirely serious.

I shrug. "I dunno. I'm on edge all day thanks to you, but you still manage to catch me off-guard." I point a finger at her. "You know, it's a little unfair, though. Can you tell me where Kelda is right now?"

Freya grimaces. "Kelda is… an exception. Her ability is uncanny."

We both subtly search for the hulking knight. Nada. Eerie.

"At any rate," Freya continues, "I suggest you try harder. Tis unacceptable to be so defenseless."

I grumble an agreement while Freya returns to Sullivan and her horse. She shouldn't be able to surprise me so easily, not when I'm so anxious it. Maybe that's the problem? I'm too wound-up. Freya's in my head. She has the psychological advantage. Rather than actually observing my environment, I'm just worrying about her making me look silly again. I suppose if I start spending my waking moments tracking her then she'll never catch me! Ha! Now, I'll need to always keep her in front of me, make sure I know where she is at mealtimes, and I guess bathroom breaks are going to be limited as well….

Wait. What am I doing? Am I turning into Michael the Wary? God, Freya, what have you done to me?

As I grapple with the painful reality that my sanity might be compromised, Chrom holds up a fist at the front of the group, signaling us to stop. I squint at the distant shape ahead. Thrashing about on a hill is a lone pegasus, the glossy white of its mane and feathers dazzling even from here. The creature beats its wings rapidly but goes nowhere. An injury of some kind must be grounding it.

Is this the wounded pegasus from the game? I smack a palm against my forehead. How did I forget? And why didn't I pick up on the fact Sumner shouldn't have a pegasus already? Why _does_ he have a pegasus? I mean, the game didn't directly say Sumia _didn't_ have one. She learned to fly somehow, right? But it was pretty damn clear that the pegasus she patches up is the one she saves Chrom with. I look over at Sumner, who hovers low in the center of our convoy. What's going to happen? He can't exactly ride two of them at once.

This must be just another variation to the game's events. But… that doesn't explain why I missed something so obvious. I've played _Awakening_ hundreds of hours. I know parts of the game's script line for line. I think back to when I met Sumner, how I felt jealous imagining him saving Chrom. It's not like I forgot the scene entirely. Yet, I didn't bat an eye when he zoomed around in the sky when we left. No… He's definitely not supposed to have a pegasus yet. He fought in the battle along the Northroad too. And Kelda! She was there! That's not in the game!

Why am I missing… missing…

Searing pain splits across my head, temple to temple. I gasp, clutching my skull in both hands. The more I try to think about the game's plot, the more it hurts. I begin to realize minor details are hazy or gone altogether. What's the name of the boss at the Longfort? Blonde… big armor… Ra…. I can't. The intensity of the pain doubles. The information is there, but it's like something's blocking me from accessing it. I push, squeezing my memory for details. How… how many chapters are in the game?

Who… who do we recruit next? L… Lo… Lon'qu! His name's Lon'qu! After the arena match. My favorite sulky myrmidon.

No! There's a paralogue first… right? He's an amazing unit. Starts weak but grows strong. Has a pot on his head. Daniel? No…

Donnel!

Ah, fuck… It hurts… so bad. The pain is almost unbearable now. I remember personalities and traits and critical plot points, but names are foggy. Faces too sometimes. Why is this happening? Christ, my head…

"Michael?" Someone's beside me. "Michael!"

A numbing sensation overtakes the pain. Am I being healed? I lift my head to see Liston and his staff, the orb on top glowing. His eyes are wide with concern. Slowly, I return to normal, all traces of the sudden migraine fading away. Blank spaces in my memory of the game remain, however. Things I _know_ but can't recall. Worse, as Sumner and Kelda prove, I seem to have started accepting things that never happened in the game at all. When I first got here, I know this wasn't an issue. So, why now? What the fuck is happening?

"Hey," Liston says gently. "Talk to me, Mike. You went all wibbly wobbly there." He lowers his staff cautiously.

No way I can tell Liston about this. "I… I just had a weird headache. Must be from training with Freya. I'm not sleeping much." Technically true. Sort of.

He seems to buy it. "She really knows how to work a guy to the bone, huh?" Liston frowns. "Just try to take care of yourself, too, yeah?"

I give Liston a thumbs up. "Roger, doc." Part of me hates lying, but it can't be helped. Eager to change the topic, I gesture towards Chrom and Sumner, who've gone ahead of the group to deal with the pegasus. Freya and Robin approach the beast as well. "What's up with the pegasus?"

Liston places his hand above his eyes like a visor. "Looks kinda hurt maybe. Wild pegasi are pretty rare, though. I wonder what it's doing out here…" He turns back to me. "I was gonna check it out with Chrom, but I saw you before I got the chance."

I make a shooing motion. "Well, don't let me stop you now," I say. Truth be told, I'm barely keeping myself under wraps. Panic threatens to run rampant. Of all the fucked up shit that's gone down so far, this is the most disconcerting. I can't explain it. My foreknowledge admittedly hasn't been very helpful, but it's the only thing I took to this world with me. If I can't trust my own memories… what do I have left? How do I tell what's correct and what's incorrect, what's canon and what's not? I feel faint.

It must show on my face, because Liston scrutinizes me closely. "Are you sure you're OK, Mike?" he asks, readying his staff again.

"I'm fine!" I say crossly. Liston shrinks at my tone. Crap. "I'm sorry… I'm just feeling a bit off today. I didn't mean to snap."

The healer places a placating hand on my shoulder. "It's alright. Freya's training courses can make anyone go a little bonkers."

I manage a forced laugh. "I suppose so. But really, Liston, I'm good. Don't worry about me."

After a couple more assurances, I succeed in ushering Liston away, and he scampers off to investigate the pegasus. As he leaves, I spot Miro studying me, the unmistakable glint of keen curiosity in his eyes. I duck his gaze—Miro is the last person I want investigating my headache. Then again, who better to deduce what the hell's scrambling my brain than Miro? No, it's too risky. I'm not clever enough to hide my origin from him. Not when he'd be digging so deeply into the problem. I'm alone with this development.

The Shepherds engage in idle chitchat while Sumner calms the pegasus. It's a welcome respite for them, considering how unforgiving the terrain is becoming. Northern Ylisse is a rugged landscape filled with steep inclines and narrow passes. In some areas, the road fractures, leading to brief treks across unstable ground. It's incredible I'm still functioning at all after the nightly lessons. The temperature also leaves much to be desired. Increased altitude thins the air and creates frigid winds that sap precious warmth. Snow blankets large swathes of earth, steadily converting more and more of the countryside to white rather than green. The only comfort through the miserable conditions is that Regna Ferox is very near.

I'm so lost in distracting myself from the predicament of my memory, that I almost don't hear Chrom telling us to move out. Sumner stays behind to nurse the wounded pegasus, promising to remain safe and catch up as soon as possible. I hope dealing with two pegasi doesn't slow him down.

We march on, our pace quickening as the sense our destination lies only a few miles away spreads through the Shepherds. Finally, the Longfort appears.

A giant wall stretches as far as the eye can see in either direction, a looming marvel of human innovation. A few Shepherds (myself included) gape at its sheer size. If this world has "Seven Wonders," this is surely one of them. Directly along the road is a massive gatehouse, its ancient stones weathered by years of bitter winters. Feroxi soldiers dot the battlements. Archers leer from above while armored knights pace to and fro. Our approach draws their attention, and one of the bowmen turns and shouts something to an unseen person before vanishing.

He returns with a brawny woman sporting short blonde hair.

Raimi!

Seeing her jolts my memory, and I'm able to conjure up the name.

This is of course followed immediately by distaste for said person. Raimi. _Awakening's_ resident moron who mistakes Chrom for a bandit. Who starts a completely unnecessary battle. Who…

Who…

Who… She does something else, right? Later in the game?

I can't remember.

But I don't get time to dwell on it.

Raimi's yelling down at Chrom. The archers notch their arrows. Soldiers lift their javelins.

"Please, good lady! If you'd just listen—" Chrom cries.

"I've heard quite enough! Attack!"

I scan the sky for Sumner.

He's not there.

* * *

 **Author's Note: The plot thickens! Mike's having a wee bit of trouble right now. His crystal clear memory isn't exactly holding up. When will the world stop throwing curveballs at poor Mike? For those of you itching for more battle, the next chapter may scratch that itch (also expect some quality Vaiva and Virginie). Hopefully, this chapter got you guys thinking! I'd love to hear about your speculations in a review or PM! Don't be shy!**

 **After some consideration, I believe it may be time for me to acquire a beta reader. I could use an extra pair of eyes to catch mistakes. I do a pretty good job of proofreading, but it never hurts to be even more precise. If you're interested, please let me know!**

 **As always, thank you all for your incredible support. I love writing for you readers. Your follows, favs, and reviews spur me ever onward! Naga bless you!**

 **Geust- Huh. I suppose you're right, historically speaking. Even the famous Roman gladius was not the legionnaire's main weapon, and the auxiliary carried spears as well. But for the sake of entertainment and Fire Emblem, I think we can all agree that swords are pretty cool.**

 **Yexius- I'm happy to hear you like Mike (heh). It warms my heart. As for the ships, for now all I will say is that I'll definitely be feeding you shippers throughout the story.**

 **mattalatorre- They do have a fascinating relationship, don't they?**

 **Shippersaurus- I'm sensing people like Chrom and Mike. :) And yeah, as you saw in this chapter, Freya is no joke!**

 **Caellach Tiger Eye- I sent you a PM about a few things, since responding here would have been extremely long (I just got your response as well! My own is in the works!) But as always, your support and high quality reviews are a massive boost to my morale. I hope this chapter proved to be another engaging addition to the story!**

 **Scorin a Guest- Hey, I'm not gonna complain about two reviews! But thank you so much for your kind words. I'm especially glad that you think my writing is realistic!**

 **Serendipitous- Ha! Your review made me laugh. Freya's Fanatical Fitness Hour indeed! I do hope it did not disappoint. Oddly enough, while writing the scenes with Sullivan and Sumner, supports never crossed my mind. Those technically were kinda support conversations. Good to see they worked out, though! Also, fun fact: I've been doing research for this fic about various medieval thingies and learned that smoothness was mostly obtained with a hand planer, but finishing touches were done by scraping the wood with the skin of the dogfish or by rubbing with an herb called "shave-grass." Weird, huh? It's extremely flattering that my fic is helping you get through finals! Good luck on those, by the way!**

 **RequiemAnon- Happy to hear you liked the chapter! I tried hard to make the scenes with Sullivan and Sumner believable.**


	12. Together

Chapter XII: Together

* * *

The javelins descend in slow-motion, like I'm witnessing it through a camera lens powered by adrenaline and pumping blood. I hear every thundering beat of my heart as the deadly intent of those spears inches closer to Chrom. She's too far away for me to do anything. Sumner isn't coming either. And so I stand in petrified horror, helpless.

Unlike me, however, the other Shepherds aren't paralyzed. They spring into action. Sullivan and Stana spur their horses forward, looking like fabled knights of old quite literally bent on saving the princess. Virginie fires an arrow, her usual boastfully suave disposition replaced by urgency. Her projectile nails a falling javelin and knocks it off course. Woah. That's some Hawkeye shit right there. Vaiva unleashes a roar, sprinting toward Chrom, spiky blonde mane bouncing. Liston, while clearly scared, lifts his staff, ready to heal. Robin and Miro hurl magic at the battlements, forcing the soldiers on top to retreat out of view. Freya desperately tries to reach her liege before its too late. And Kelda…

Kelda's in front of Chrom! The bulky giant raises her hefty shield, protecting Chrom behind a wall of metal. The spears ping harmlessly to the ground. I don't even bother to wonder where the hell Kelda came from. All I feel is relief.

"Get to those trees! We're exposed out here!" Robin yells, throwing an arm in the direction of a small grove. They acknowledge Kelda with a nod but decide to save any words of gratitude for a later, less likely to be perforated, date.

It takes a moment for the life to return to my legs. An arrow imbedding into the ground a few feet away is more than enough to get me moving, though. Soon, our group is huddled together between the trees, sheltered for now from the Feroxi bombardment. Liston gathers Chrom into a tight hug while slathering Kelda with nigh incomprehensible praises. Kelda flushes, waving it off, seeming rather out of place in the spotlight.

A cough from Robin breaks the mood. "As thankful as I am for Kelda's timely intervention," Robin says, smiling sincerely at the big knight, "we have some pressing concerns right now."

Several Feroxi soldiers encroach on our position, having come down from the walls to engage us. Their strategy appears to be a two-pronged assault, as one squad closes in directly from our north while another from the opposite end of the gatehouse to the east. Unlike the bandits in Southtown, these men and woman are properly outfitted with professional gear. We're facing trained warriors, not street thugs.

"I agree. We ought to focus on the situation at hand," Freya says, but I notice her eyes flicker to Kelda briefly. "Loathe as I am to trust them, Robin might offer some valuable insight in this. Do you have a plan, Robin?"

Ten pairs of eyes, mine included, fixate on Robin. The tactician spins in a circle, surveying the entire area. I have to admire Robin's instantaneous segue into formulating our defense. No hesitation whatsoever. Honestly, all the Shepherds showed amazing spirit when Raimi ordered the attack. Each one of these people is a stalwart hero. And then there's me. Who just stood there like a deer in headlights. Damnit.

Robin speaks. "We're being flanked. Those soldiers on the wall have us pinned here. We're outnumbered as well. Tactically speaking, the Feroxi troops have the advantage."

Vaiva spits into the snow. "Ya don't say? Know what I think? I think the Vaiva here needs to go out there and crack some heads."

"And you'll get to, if you let me finish," Robin says evenly, a familiar light entering their eyes. "The Feroxi guard have no cavalry. But _we_ do. The soldiers approaching from the east haven't covered much ground yet. If Freya, Sullivan, and Stana charge out to meet them, we can rout that side easily. I don't see any mages either. Miro and I can use our magic from here to keep the men on the wall at bay. That leaves Chrom, Vaiva, Virginie, and Kelda free to deal with the group from the north. Liston, you'll be with them, as this is where we're mostly likely to take some hits. Finally, we climb those stairs, break down the doors, and clean house."

They don't mention me. Unsurprising. But I still need to ask. "What am I doing during all this?"

Robin doesn't miss a beat. "You're staying here with Miro and me. And that is an order." They turn to Chrom for support. The princess stares at me in a way that leaves no room for any argument. Not that I would. Robin's plan is solid. Just as solid as the last one. I'm not fucking anything up this time.

"Alright, Shepherds! You all heard Robin!" Chrom says, taking my silence as compliance. "Get ready for combat!" She draws Falchion and squares up beside Vaiva.

"As soon as Miro and I hit the soldiers on the wall, I want you three to move. When you've finished with them, wait until Chrom and the others have taken care of this side. Then attack the east door," Robin explains to our three mounted troops. The knights nod and form a wedge, pulling the reins on their horses as they prepare for battle.

With the Shepherds in formation, Robin looks to Miro. The mage adjusts his spectacles and begins conjuring a flame in his right hand. Electricity sparks in Robin's palm as they murmur words from their open tome. Both spells impact the wall simultaneously, chunks of stone ricocheting in all directions. Yelps from above sound through the dust as the pair readies for another blast.

Freya leads Sullivan and Stana across the open field of snow. The incoming charge startles the Feroxi units, and they backpedal rather than hold their line. Freya deals the first blow, her lance finding the arm of a swordsman. Of course, these are human beings, not Risen, so the man shrieks and hacks at the shaft of Freya's lance. She withdraws the polearm before he can do any noticeable damage. Sullivan and Stana enter the fray with crunching force, Sullivan trampling the wounded soldier and Stana bringing her sword down onto a spearman's helmet. I'm not positive her strike is fatal due to the headgear, but he crumples and doesn't rise.

It's a sort of gruesome beauty to watch the trio fight, years of training revealed on the battlefield as organized destruction. Even mild-mannered and easy-going Stana transforms into a woman of singular purpose: to defeat the enemy. And that she does. As Robin predicted, the knights make short work of the eastern detachment. The whole skirmish takes maybe a minute. Phase one of Robin's plan is a resounding success.

"Hey, Chrom," Vaiva says, nudging her in the ribs. "How 'bout we have a friendly competition, huh? First one to take down one of them Feroxi numbskulls wins. Whaddaya say?"

Chrom eyes the woman in disbelief. "Seriously? I don't really think—"

Vaiva thumps Chrom on the shoulder. "What? Afraid the Vaiva's gonna make your royal princess-y-ness look bad?"

"Now, hold on just a—"

The tan warrior brandishes her axe. "Too late! We got company!" The northern party of troops reaches the edge of the grove, hesitant after the obliteration of their comrades. "Teach is here, and class is in session!"

Vaiva beckons Chrom to join her as she barrels into an archer, who puts up his bow as a meek resistance. Kelda lumbers out of the trees, her lance tucked under her arm in a braced position. Virginie uses Kelda's broad form to block enemies from targeting her and launches an arrow at the gang of Feroxi soldiers.

"Gods, Vaiva," Chrom mumbles. She waves to Robin and sets off, Falchion firm in her two-handed grip. Liston trails after his sister, shaking his head.

For all Vaiva's rashness, the woman can fight. Her "competition" with Chrom is settled quickly, as the archer eats the blunt end of her axe in the face. Dude never had a chance. Vaiva leaps over the unconscious body, beaming at Chrom.

"See that, Chrom? Teach rules." She kisses a bicep.

Chrom trips an oncoming challenger, sending him sprawling. "You didn't even give me time to get out here!" she argues. "Sweet Naga, why am I even bothered by this?"

"Just admit you lost!" Vaiva shouts, parrying away a spear tip with fluid ease.

"I can't have lost if I didn't get to play!" Chrom counters, bashing the man on ground with Falchion's pommel.

"Whatever." A wicked grin upturns Vaiva's lips. "Chromaralina."

I can't see that well from the grove, but for all the world it looks like Chrom's eye twitches. Her defeated opponent receives a devastating kick to the groin. Ow. Double ow. A second soldier intercepts the princess, pausing to wince at the fallen man. Falchion shimmers as Chrom batters aside a strike intended for her stomach. She retaliates, lashing out nimbly. The Feroxi woman is quick, though, and dodges left. The two fence in a heated dance, Chrom slowly gaining the upper hand. Eventually, Chrom's superior skill overwhelms the woman and disarms her in a flourishing, hooking maneuver, using Falchion's center hole to pry the weapon away. I almost clap.

Chrom holds her sword level with the woman's chest. "Yield," she commands. The woman lifts her hands in surrender, eyes trained on the blade inches away. Chrom's gaze flits to ring of keys hanging from the soldier's belt.

"Do any of those keys open that door?" Chrom asks, gesturing towards the stairs leading up to it.

The woman doesn't answer at first but changes her mind once the princess presses Falchion's tapered point into her chest. "Y-Yes… This one here." She taps a key.

"Good." Chrom suddenly rotates and drives an elbow against the woman's chin. Instant KO. She taps the soldier's side with her boot. "Sorry. Can't really afford to watch you right now." Chrom nabs the key ring, jangling them at Robin.

The tactician ceases fire on the battlement and sends Chrom a thumbs up. Vaiva, Virginie, and Kelda finish dispatching their respective opponents, leaving only the gatehouse itself to be stormed. Liston heals some minor scrapes and bruises, but on the whole we emerge unscathed from this round of fighting. The Shepherds work incredibly well as a team. Not only are they formidable individual warriors, but they know exactly how to complement one another in the midst of battle. Vaiva and Chrom's friendly rivalry enhances both their performances. Stana and Sullivan operate almost as different sides of the same coin. Virginie, despite being new, provides invaluable ranged support. And not least of all is Robin, someone who little more than a week ago had never met even one of these people. You'd never know just by looking. It's impressive. That's an understatement, really.

"Virginie, you stay here with Michael. Your arrows won't be much use against some of these heavy infantry," Robin says, unsheathing their sword and casting a glance at the door. "OK, everyone. Let's make this fast. They won't know what hit them." The tactician and Miro exit the grove, linking up with Chrom.

Virginie wears a miffed expression, haughtily tossing her hair, but stays quiet. She trots towards me in dignified annoyance. Chrom places a foot on the staircase's bottom step. "On me!" she declares, bounding up the stairs. The others follow promptly, eager to see this conflict ended. I gaze across the field, just glimpsing Freya leading Sullivan and Stana up their side. Soon, the Shepherds vanish from sight, and I only hear war cries and clashing metal.

"I do so wish our illustrious strategist would not deprive me further opportunity to display my gift with the bow," Virginie bemoans, languishing theatrically against a tree trunk. When I don't respond immediately, she continues. "For there are such fine men, such rugged bastions of manly hew to impress!"

I count on my fingers. "So… you mean Sullivan? Because Liston and Miro are hardly "manly." And Sumner's…" I trail off. Where is Sumner? He should be here. Concern aggravates my thoughts.

Virginie saunters closer. "Nonsense! Handsome Liston and distinguished Miro are as strapping as any! Why, I daresay their taut bodies and lean—"

"You can stop _any_ time," I cut in, pinching the bridge of my nose.

"Ah, dearest Michael, what plagues you? Perhaps you believe I have forgotten you? Fear not! The end of time itself could not keep me from you! Others may think you hapless, even bungling, but I, generous Virginie, only find you most appealing." She tries her best sultry stare. I don't think my eyes have ever rolled harder than in that moment.

I ignore her ode. "Aren't you worried about Sumner? He should have caught up by now."

She nods. "Sumner, proof that a sensitive man ignites fire in a maiden's heart!" Virginie withers slightly under my glare. "Er, I mean, yes. Of course, I'm beset with trepidation over his welfare. But I assure you, Michael, Sumner is no lost babe in the woods."

As if on cue, the beating of wings sounds overhead. Sumner glides in from the south, a second pegasus tagging along behind. Thank God. I run into the snowy clearing, waving my arms above my head and shouting. Virginie darts after me, adjusting the hem of her blouse. Sumner descends upon seeing me, hovering a few feet in the air. The other pegasus touches down, prancing and whinnying.

"Oh, joyous reunion! Darling Sumner—"

"Just shut up, Virginie," I snap and turn to Sumner. "Chrom and the rest of Shepherds are fighting with the Feroxi border guard. Their idiot of a leader thinks she's a bandit." I keep my explanation concise.

Sumner gives the gatehouse a grim look. "I saw two groups fighting on my way in. Seems I was right to fear the worst."

"Sorry I couldn't be the bearer of better news," I say apologetically.

The pegasus knight grips his lance. "Watch my girl here," he says, pointing at the grounded pegasus. "I'm going to help the Captain!"

He directs his mount higher and sails over the wall, leaving Virginie and me with the winged horse. I eye the beast tentatively. While the pegasus appears nearly identical to the one carrying Sumner, I can tell this isn't the wounded creature he aided earlier. There aren't any dressings or bandages, so I assume this pegasus is Sumner's original. Makes sense. I doubt the other would have just followed him.

Cautiously approaching, I hold a hand out at arm's length. "There, there, girl," I whisper. "Let's get you into these trees, alright?" The pegasus allows me to stroke her muzzle. I'm silently thankful Sumner and I share a similar bond with animals. I guide her back to the safety of the grove using gentle words and reassuring pats. She nips affectionately at my fingers, and I feel myself smiling. What a sweetie.

"Would you but look upon me the way you do this majestic creature!" Virginie croons. "My heart flutters at the very notion!"

I scowl at the frivolous archer. "Do you hear yourself?" I ask, eyes narrowing. "And what exactly are you implying? That I want to have relations with a horse?"

Virginie pales, frantically shaking her head. "N-Not at all, good sir! What a most uncouth suggestion! I merely… um… that is to say… I apologize. I meant no offense," she says, finishing on a note of surprising sincerity.

"It's fine," I reply, sighing. Virginie exhales, like she'd been expecting something far worse. "Just… take it easy on the flirting."

She looks aghast. "I do not _flirt_. A noblewoman does not _flirt_. I bestow chaste affection, pour forth passion to buoy wanton hearts!"

"Right," I say incredulously.

Virginie toys with a strand of hair before tapping a manicured finger on her chin. I get the feeling she's about to enlighten me about some aspect of her personality. Unfortunately, the Law of Interrupting Catastrophe… well… interrupts.

The gatehouse opens, a platoon of Feroxi troops marching through.

Reinforcements? That is _so_ not fair.

The soldiers split, forming two lines, one going east and the other west. They hug the wall, keeping close and moving fast. Headed towards the staircases, I assume. But why come outside? Wouldn't it be more efficient for reinforcements to arrive from inside the fort?

"Those sly dogs seek to entrap our companions, making retreat nigh impossible," Virginie says, an uncharacteristic graveness to her voice.

Hearing Virginie, it clicks. If they block the stairs, we have no way out. Chrom and the others are sitting ducks. "This is bad. Really bad," I say, starting to panic.

Virginie puts a hand on my shoulder. "We must act swiftly." She notches an arrow.

"Wait! There's only two of us! And I can't… I can't even fight." Robin told me to stay out of the battle. Last time I disobeyed orders, someone almost died.

Her eyes blaze. "You would rather do nothing and let our comrades perish?"

"N-No! But what can we do? I'm not… I don't…" The words die in my throat. Virginie's right, though. I'm just so useless. I'm no good out there. I'm me.

" _But do you care about them, about anyone, more than yourself?"_

Robin's question echoes in my mind. I have a chance to do the right thing. I attacked that Risen for selfish, stupid reasons. I wasn't trying to help anyone. I wasn't trying to protect my friends. But this is different. This isn't about me.

I want to change. I want to be better.

For them.

I face Virginie, fists trembling. "Shooting at them will just get us killed. We need to warn Chrom and the others somehow."

She lowers the bow. Both our gazes land on the pegasus. It's all we've got.

"Can you ride one of these?" I ask Virginie.

The archer appraises the pegasus. "I've never had the pleasure, I'm afraid. But it cannot be so different from its wingless counterpart." She walks up to the pegasus, attempting to touch its flank. The beast bucks, snorting and recoiling. Guess Virginie's charm doesn't apply to pegasi.

"I'll give it a try." I repeat my previous actions, when I coaxed her into the grove. She whines a bit, but I caress her mane and press my forehead into her neck. "Sumner's in trouble up there. He needs your help. We need your help. Please?"

Sumner's pegasus seems to understand her owner's plight, looking at me with intelligent eyes. I wave Virginie over. "I think she'll let us ride her now," I say, mussing the hair on the back of my head. "But I have no idea what I'm doing."

"Sadly, we do not have the luxury of preparation." Virginie inclines her head toward the pegasus. "After you, good sir."

I gulp. OK, Mike, first step is to get on the thing. Just like back on your grandparents' farm. Remember Rocket? You rode around on him all the time. Of course, Rocket couldn't fly. That's kind of ironic, considering the name, isn't it?

Breathing deep, I clear the nervous thoughts. Climbing aboard the pegasus is fairly easy, despite Sumner having transferred the saddle to the other one. I offer Virginie a hand and haul her up behind me. She wraps her arms around my waist. To her credit, I'm ninety percent sure it's because she doesn't want to fall off and die. Even Virginie knows when to be serious.

"Onward! Let us soar through the open sky on this magnificent steed!"

Or maybe not. I tug softly on the winged horse's mane. "Alright, girl… uh… fly?"

I don't expect the pegasus to actually go airborne after one prompt. So, when she flaps her wings and begins gaining altitude, I yelp and cling to her. We rise high above the trees, the soldiers below shrinking. I hear the _twang_ of a bow string as Virginie looses an arrow before grabbing me again. It takes the Feroxi guards a moment to realize where the shot came from. They point at us, one of them hurling a javelin that well misses the mark. I swat my heels against the pegasus, urging her forward. As I do so, I make the mistake of looking down. That's pretty high. Like, really high.

Holy shit, we're flying! The revelation that I'm riding a mythical creature hits me as a tremulous lurching of the stomach. We're _flying_. In a sense, it's incredible. But mostly, it's fucking terrifying. Sumner's pegasus zips toward the Longfort. From this height, I see the Shepherds duking it out with Raimi's forces. It's going well. Freya and Chrom have Raimi cornered. However, there'll be a reversal of fortune should these reinforcements surprise them.

Mercifully, the pegasus requires little steering to ferry us over the wall. Sumner sees us first, banking to glide alongside.

"Michael?! Virginie?" he shouts, plainly confused. "What are you doing here? I asked you to watch her, not fly her!"

"There's reinforcements coming up the stairs, Sumner! They're trying to surround you all. We need to tell Chrom and Robin. Now!" I jerk my head at the pair for emphasis.

Sumner grimaces, but otherwise remains calm. "I'll warn them. Land somewhere safe!" He shifts away and plummets toward Chrom in a burst of speed.

Land? Yeah, I'd love to. Problem is, I sort of don't know how.

Virginie senses my conundrum. "Perhaps another word of encouragement might be appropriate?"

Well, it's worth a try. "Say, you wouldn't mind landing, would you, girl?" I ask the pegasus.

She tucks her wings in response, diving. We accelerate rapidly, and I clutch the pegasus with all the strength I possess while Virginie squeals not unlike a tea kettle.

"I SAID LAND! NOT KILL US! SLOW DOWN!"

My screaming has no effect. Just when I think we're about to become lovely red stains on the stone, the pegasus unfurls her wings, creating a massive amount of drag. She gracefully gallops onto the ground, ambling to a stop. Virginie and I both roll off, splaying out as human puddles. Never again. Never again will I ride a pegasus. And to think I called her "sweetie."

A couple dozen yards away, Chrom trades blows with Raimi. Robin's following Sumner back toward the west staircase, Vaiva and Liston accompanying. Freya and Kelda cover the east while Stana and Sullivan keep the few remaining soldiers still fighting near Raimi occupied. After a quick search, I locate Miro leaning over the battlement, raining fire down into the west stairwell. I sigh in relief. The reinforcements didn't get the jump on us. I flip sides to check on Virginie. She's already bolting to the battlement opposite Miro to assist Freya and Kelda.

Which leaves me doing nothing. I successfully averted a potentially deadly situation for the Shepherds, but here I am, standing like some kid who got picked last for dodgeball. Honestly, Sumner's pegasus did most of the work anyways. There has to be something more I can do. Not something foolish, though. Not something I only do to look cool or feel less shitty. If I ever want to be a true Shepherd, someone who puts others first, someone who doesn't take his friends for granted, someone who does what's right simply _because_ it's right, then I need to act like one.

Awareness. The most important rule of combat. What do I see? What do I hear? What do I sense?

Chrom. Her breathing's labored, shoulders low. Her movements aren't as crisp. Falchion lacks impact against Raimi's heavy armor, failing to find weak spots or bouncing off entirely. The length of the Feroxi knight's lance prevents Chrom from dealing more than superficial damage. Chrom is talented, a prodigy even, but this is like watching a guy with only a handgun try to take out a tank.

Everyone else is busy waging their own battles, and Chrom is too stubborn to call for help. If this goes on, she could be seriously injured. The battle's not worth winning if we lose Chrom. More than that, she's my friend. I want to help her. Not because I owe her, not because of a debt. But because friends _never_ abandon each other.

I tell Sumner's pegasus to stay put. For this to work, Raimi can't see me coming. Chrom either; she'll probably yell at me to keep back. A flying horse is a bit of a dead giveaway. I circle around Chrom and Raimi, maintaining a wide berth. Slightly hunched, I creep toward them. At this angle I maximize my odds of an invisible approach. I'm to the side of both fighters, gambling that the taxing duel impairs their peripheral vision. All I need to do is get close enough to sprint the final distance.

A little more.

Almost there.

Just another step.

NOW!

I call upon my inner Usain Bolt and run. Faster than I've ever ran before. Chrom and Raimi turn just as I'm about to lunge.

Last time, I lunged for my own selfishness.

This time, I lunge for Chrom's sake.

"What the—" Rami tries to pivot, but I slam into her. Tackling metal armor feels a lot like when I belly flopped off the high dive as dare in the sixth grade. Long story short, it hurts. Raimi topples, and we go down. She scores a punch to my kidney, not a clean hit, but enough to send explosive, excruciating pain throughout my lower back and abdomen. It's as if she injected napalm into my organs. I'm gonna piss blood, aren't I?

I'm half-conscious, delirious after Raimi's iron fist. She shoves me off, flailing like an overturned crab. But my gambit worked. Chrom places Falchion under Raimi's chin, her blue irises flashing triumphantly. The Feroxi woman curses, letting her lance roll away from her fingers. Victory.

"Surrender. You've lost," Chrom says, sounding winded. "Will you now accept that I _am_ Chrom, princess of Ylisse, sister to Exalt Emmeryn, and bearer of Naga's Mark?" Chrom must be pretty peeved to rattle off all those identifiers.

Raimi glares before closing her eyes with a sigh. "Aye. I submit. I see now that I was mistaken. No brigand imposters could fight with the honor and valor of your men. A thousand apologies, Princess Chrom."

Chrom retracts Falchion, extending a hand in its stead. "Apology accepted. If you call off your guard."

The reverberating bass of Raimi's horn floods the air, a singular note signaling defeat. Shepherds and Feroxi alike gather on the Longfort roof, animosity lingering but repressed. Chrom kneels next to me, her hand on my arm.

"Gods, Michael, where's your common sense?" she scolds, examining my prone form. "Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine." I wince. My kidney throbs as if angry about the lie.

Chrom hollers at Liston, who's currently healing a wounded Feroxi soldier. Generous, considering they just tried to murder us. "Michael's injured. He won't say how, though," Chrom tells Liston when he arrives.

"Are you always a blockhead, Mike? I swear to Naga you get dumber every day," the healer gripes, lifting up my tunic. My skin is already bruising where Raimi slugged me. Healing magic seeps into the tissue, an instant balm. Liston bops me lightly on the head with his staff once he's done. "What did you do, you griffon-brained clod?"

"He jumped on the Feroxi captain." Chrom eyes me harshly until her expression softens. "And won me the fight. I… I was losing when he pulled that stunt." Her voice won't decide whether to be thankful or irritated.

I sit up, twisting my spine to test the muscles. No pain. My boy, M.D. Liston. "Just doing my part," I say, shrugging.

Chrom frowns. "Your part was supposed to be staying out of the battle." She pushes her hair back, the frown transiting to a small smile. "What am I going to do with you, Michael?"

"Sing my praises? Reward me in gold and diamonds? Throw a banquet?" I joke, laughing awkwardly. My lips feel dry. "Chrom… I did what I had to. When people you care about need help, you help them. I'm trying to be someone who does that."

Chrom and Liston share a look, brief and knowing. "Thank you." Chrom clasps her hand in mine. "Thank you."

Raimi clearing her throat saves me the task of responding coherently. "Pardon the interruption, milady. I would like to discuss your audience with the Khan. As a sign of goodwill, I will escort you to the capital personally."

The princess rises. "I'd greatly appreciate that. If it is not too much to ask, may my companions and I rest here for the night?"

The blonde nods. "I'll arrange accommodations at once." Raimi bows her head and starts to leave but pauses to stare at me. "Your man there. He's a brazen one." I can't tell if it's a compliment or an insult. Probably both.

Raimi clomps toward one of her troops, barking orders. Robin hobbles past, harboring a limp. "Well, it's like her whole demeanor changed. Might have been nice to see it earlier," the tactician says, greeting Chrom, Liston, and me with a wave.

Seeing their limp, Liston yanks Robin's sleeve. "Sit. Stop putting weight on that leg," he says sternly, to which Robin complies, albeit begrudgingly.

While Liston treats their leg—a nasty cut from mid-thigh to knee—Robin locks eyes with me. "Sumner told me what you did to bring us news of the reinforcements. You have my thanks, Michael."

OK, people, you all can quit with the gratitude. "Thank Virginie. She convinced me to."

"I've already done so. She tells me you flew the pegasus."

I rub my thumbs together. "I mean, it flew itself, really."

"Michael." Robin's smiling. "I'm saying you did a good job. Just accept it."

I'm not used to this kind of reaction. The opposite, sure, but not this. I'm the fuck up, remember? Disaster master extraordinaire. I stare at my boots, a tinge of heat on my ears. Did I do a good job? Maybe. I'm just glad everyone's safe.

Chrom informs Robin that we're spending the night, and the two talk at length about the road ahead. Apparently, this area belonged to Ylisse in the past, but Regna Ferox claimed it as part of a peace treaty following a war between the two nations. Chrom's great-great-grandfather was the last Exalt to rule over this territory. Robin devours the history lesson, and I admit that it's fascinating to me as well. Eventually, Ylisse decided the land to be less important than their friendship with the Khans. Good thing, too, since we need this alliance.

Vaiva and Sumner join our group in the middle of Chrom outlining the tactics Khan Quintus used against the Exalt during the Battle of Nixium Field. Robin scrawls notes in their leather-bound journal, sometimes looking up to exclaim "Brilliant!" or "Superb!" Vaiva, to Robin's immense displeasure, snatches the journal, proclaiming the whole affair a "snorefest" while insisting we listen to her harrowing tale of the day she wrestled a bull wearing nothing but a loincloth. She regales us every detail as Robin chases her in circles trying to recover their book.

The Shepherds join the growing ring of people one by one. Liston cackles when Sullivan trips Vaiva, Robin's notebook landing in Stana's lap. The kindred knight returns the book to a grateful Robin in spite of Vaiva's loud protests. Sumner attempts to pacify Vaiva, who promises revenge against Sullivan. The red-haired man just laughs, mentioning something about payback for the "poison nettle" incident.

This strange, impromptu meeting evolves into mirthful celebration of sorts. The chatter ranges from Virginie's "Seven Rules of Wooing" to Miro's (well, he gives credit to his mother) hypothesis that all things return to the ground due to some intangible force. Hang in there, Isaac Newton. You'll get it soon. I listen to the Shepherds share stories and snicker at inside jokes. These people are bonded. It's unlike anything I've ever experienced.

"Hey, Michael."

"Hm?" I blink from my reverie. Stana's messy ponytail bobs as she sits beside me.

"You seem lost in your own world over here," she says, flicking her eyes at the others.

I give a half-smile. "Ah, I'm just thinking."

"What about?"

Should I be honest? Yeah. I should. "The Shepherds are all so close. It's amazing."

Stana regards her friends with tender eyes. "We are. It's what makes us strong."

I study my hands, unsure what to say.

"You know why we were so upset after what happened with the Risen? Still upset, if I'm being straightforward." Stana's face is calm, mellow. I can only answer with a silent stare. She goes on. "Because we made you one of us. We trusted you to be a part of the team. What you did made us think you didn't respect us or want to be a real Shepherd."

"I know I'm not one of you." I rest my chin on intertwined knuckles.

"Actually," Stana says, watching Vaiva freak after Kelda suddenly appears behind her, "you are. When one of us falls, we all fall. I'm just an ordinary girl. But with the Shepherds, I'm more. More than I'll ever be alone. Together, we're more. Do you understand?"

"I… do." My eyes burn.

Stana smiles, genuine, sisterly, an upward curve borne from the deepest, most sacred place within the heart. "I'm glad, Michael." She pokes my side. "And I'm glad you're here."

As I sit near Stana, surrounded by people I never thought I'd know, tears patter onto the stone.

With the Shepherds, maybe I'll become more too. For the first time since waking up in this world, I feel a budding sense of belonging.

* * *

 **Author's Note: In the longest chapter thus far, Mike takes another step forward. Did you feel those feels? I felt the feels. I really hope you all enjoyed this chapter. I tried to give it healthy doses of action and character development. Writing Virginie's lines was especially fun. Quirky weirdos like her always make for some entertaining moments. Infinite thanks to _Awakening_ for giving us these beautiful, beautiful creations. About Mike's memory loss, I know we didn't see anything more about it here, but don't fret! It's quite the important element.**

 **Once again, thank you all for your support and continued readership. It's a blessing to write for people as awesome as you all!**

 **Clutchvm- Nice to see another review from you! I'm glad I had you on the edge of your seat! And thanks for the "solider" catch. I think at least in my case, this happens because I type faster than my brain sometimes. Whoops.**

 **Scorin- Yeah, I've been getting kind of excited about introducing the memory loss. We're definitely going to see more on that in the future. I hope this chapter proved to be an interesting addition to the story. And I must confess: part of me wants to do Freya's training. A very, very, very small part. Haha!**

 **Geust- The lance, such a versatile weapon and backbone of many ancient armies. Don't forget it's the best weapon for an infantryman to face off against cavalry with too! If you're up for betaing, I'd be more than happen to discuss it with you.**

 **Nitpick- I thought about what you said and decided to remove that part from the description. Good call.**

 **RequiemAnon- Thank you for your continued reviewing! I enjoyed devising the training segments a lot. It's sort of fun to torture your MC. Hope this chapter was a worthy follow up!**

 **NoteBlade- Har har, you've fallen into my evil trap! No, but seriously, I'm just trying to give Mike and the cast quality time together. Of course, ships are always on the table… :)**

 **Huh, Suburu, eh? As much as I enjoyed Re:Zero, I never really thought about Mike in relation to him. Now that you mention it, they do have some similarities I suppose.**

 **Serendipitous- As per usual, your reviews make me quite happy. The awareness training is meant to be both humorous and productive, so it's good to hear you liked it. I chuckled to myself writing those scenes. Mike's memory loss I hope garners a lot of speculation. It's certainly a mystery worth investigating. As for the rest of the genderbent cast, I have plans! Muhahaha! I'm sure you're rocking those finals! Keep it up!**

 **aaronperla- Don't worry; your writing skills aren't trash. I really appreciated your review. To think I'm writing a story that breaks the mold and offers something new is really awesome! It's absolutely wonderful that this is your favorite FE story! I fully intend to see it through!**

 **Shippersaurus- No worries! No review is too late in my book! Glad to hear you're invested (though I guessed from your previous reviews :D). I do hope I didn't worry you too much about Chrom. But as you saw here, she's A-OK. Lon'qu will appear soon! Mark my words!**


	13. The Land of Khans

Chapter XIII: The Land of Khans

* * *

I spend the two-day march from the Longfort to the capital of Regna Ferox trying to understand my memory loss. Or I guess block is more accurate? Both? In some cases, the information is there, just inaccessible and isolated, like I'm walking towards an oasis that never gets any closer no matter how far I go. In others there's gaps in my recollection, swathes of the game's plot I know are missing because what's left makes no logical sense. Key events are still there. The Plegian War. Grima's the big baddie. Walhart conquering Valm. Lucina being Chrom's daughter (or son in this case). The Awakening ritual. But links are gone. Why does Ylisse go to war with Plegia? When does Lucina tell Chrom about their relationship? And Grima. There's something huge. Something vital. I think Robin's involved? But… not Robin? God. All I remember is Grima being a big ugly ass dragon brought back by the Grimleal. Not the how. Lucina goes back in time to stop Grima, and that's all I got.

I can't even be sure about some things. What if I've forgotten I forgot in the first place? Sumner and Kelda come to mind. If not for that pegasus on the road, I'd never have realized anything was amiss. How long has this affected me? Attempting to pry deeper, to remember, causes more headaches and makes it impossible to continue.

The whole situation disturbs me. It gets worse, though. Worse and more confusing. If I think about other Fire Emblem games, like Shadow Dragon or Gaiden, I can't remember diddly fuck all. From Shadow Dragon, there's Marth, Caeda, and that asshole Medeus. That's it. Gaiden? Two names: Alm and Celica. Real fucking useful. The same is true for Genealogy of the Holy War and Thracia 776. From those games, I remember the continent, Jugdral, and that Genealogy has two generations of characters, like Awakening. Nothing else. It's as if I basically never played the games at all. However, all the other Fire Emblem games I have no issues whatsoever remembering. Seems like the issue is only with games taking place on this world. Well, at least I think Jugdral is on this planet? It's more of an instinct rather than knowledge I distinctly possess.

So, all this leaves a pretty important question:

What the hell?

I wish I could confide in one of the Shepherds, seek answers. Even if I learn nothing, at least I wouldn't be dealing with my own brain betraying me by myself. But they can't know. For one, Freya would see to it that I never spend another second with the Shepherds. One amnesiac is enough. Two? No chance. Especially when Robin is a hundred times the combatant I am. Not to mention the simply delightful conversation about Earth and video games and "Oh, hey, Chrom, by the way you're totally a man in the story I know!" What a clusterfuck. I've already lied about my origin anyways. I crossed the point of no return.

Maybe Lucina—or Lucius or Lucian or whatever his name is—can offer an explanation. Is it safe to ask him, though? He might assume I'm some rando from the future too. Or he might think I'm a threat to Chrom and just kill me on the spot. Wait. There's no future me he knows, right? Would that even be possible? I fell into _this_ timeline. But isn't this timeline technically the same timeline just different (setting aside the screwed up shit that's already happened) because Lucina and the other kids show up? So, what if I showed up in the other timeline and this version of me is just the one I happen to be experiencing? Ugh. Time travel sucks.

I need a break.

Up ahead, Raimi walks beside Chrom step for step. She's shed her bulwark-esque suit of armor in favor of lighter mail and a heavy cloak to ward off the Feroxi chill. Without the steel plate, Raimi is an unexpectedly thin woman. She's tall, yes, but nowhere near as robust as the Shepherd's own lady knight, Kelda. Her resulting figure combines willowy elegance and wiry strength. Never judge a woman by her armor, I suppose.

She and Chrom lead us along the road, a high mountain pass that for several hours now has allowed us to look down upon the capital of Regna Ferox resting in the valley below. Urbos Magni, "The Grand City" in the old Feroxi tongue, or so Miro says. After listening to the mage teach Robin a few Feroxi words, I realize the language bears remarkable similarities to Latin. Or at least seems to, since I don't speak Latin. I'm briefly worried about a language barrier until Miro says all but the northernmost settlements speak Ylissean, AKA English. The fact everyone here speaks English both comforts and puzzles me. I mean, English has no business being on an entirely different planet. The best I come up with is that it's one of the languages the game is published in, so it's reflected here. Crappy rationale, but I've also seen people shoot fucking lightning out their hands, so who knows?

The topic stirs unease in my gut, and I busy myself observing Urbos Magni. Unlike Ylisstol, the Feroxi capital sprawls in ramshackle chaos. Walls encase the city center, but apparently the population decided to flip the bird to safety and build their homes wherever the hell they wanted. Buildings litter the hills around the walls, expanding like resilient plants stemming from granite. Steeply sloped roofs dot the land in unfathomable patterns. Against the snow, it's as if the Feroxi people defied nature herself to claim this country.

What I can only assume is the Arena Ferox dominates the city. Our descent through the mountains brings us ever closer to its splendor. When I was thirteen, my dad won a trip to Europe at his accounting firm. My family traveled from London to Paris to Berlin to Prague, and finally, to Rome. I saw the Colosseum, still mighty in its crumbling grandeur. The Arena Ferox is that relic of antiquity brought roaring to life. No modern stadium rivals the awe, the wonderment, this structure inspires. While sports complexes of my world stand as commercial, dispassionate pillars of rebar and concrete, fans within providing the only source of zeal, the Arena Ferox itself permeates the surrounding air with vibrancy and indomitable spirit. The grey—almost silver from shining inlaid minerals—walls rise imposingly, decorative statues carved along the sides. Each appears to be a warrior, maybe a famous Khan of old. From somewhere inside, controlled fire burns, illuminating the entire Arena as a flaming wreath. It's mesmerizing.

"Stupendous. An effulgent sight. Perhaps this is the zenith of Feroxi architectural extravagance."

I turn and see Miro studying the city, expression emotionless save a tiny tilt of the brows. He grips the brim of his wizard hat to prevent the wind carrying it away. I'm not positive he's speaking to me instead of thinking aloud, but I'm curious enough about the buildings to reply.

"Do you know much about Feroxi architecture, Miro?"

He squints at the Arena. "Fascinating. What manner of stone scintillates in such a fashion? Is there a quarry nearby? To import a multitudinous quantity seems highly improbable."

I stick a hand into his field of vision. "Uh. Hello?"

Miro startles, like someone threw cold water on his face. Realizing my presence, he pushes up his glasses. "Ah, Michael. Do you require something?"

Guess he was just talking to himself. Figures. "I asked if you knew anything about the way Regna Ferox builds things," I say, almost regretting asking. "You made a comment about it, and I thought you were talking to me." This isn't weird. Not at all.

"I see." Miro thinks for a moment before lifting a finger. "Oh. You mistook the combination of our physical proximity and my ruminations as an invitation to converse."

Well, that's one way to put it. "Sure. Yes. That," I agree, feigning a smile. "But, my question?"

He reaches into a satchel hanging by his side. How I failed to notice its enormous, bulging size is beyond me. The most superfluous packer indeed. Miro retrieves a volume from its cavernous depths. _The History of Constructs: A Study of Architecture from Archanea to Ylisse, 17th Edition_. Oh my.

Miro leafs through the book's considerable girth. "Ahem," he begins, finding the page he wanted. "Following the Schism, the Ylissean continent experienced marked advancement. Civilizations prospered, not least of all Regna Ferox. Once a mere conglomerate of tribal confederations, its barbarian founders devised a system of dual leadership. The newfound order invigorated production and—"

"You know, maybe just paraphrase?" I suggest, experiencing flashbacks of bland college lectures.

The mage stops, stowing the textbook back into his satchel. "As you wish. A layman summary then. The Feroxi are a pugnacious people invested in opulent displays of strength. Their architecture reflects a grandiose commitment to tangible testaments of said prowess. As the idiom goes, 'the bigger, the better.' I presume you found this satisfactory?" Miro gazes at me neutrally.

"So," I venture, deciphering his words, "basically they make things big and flashy because it looks tough?"

He nods. "Affirmative. Therefore, it is hardly astonishing that a venue dedicated to the exhibition of combat should be their most impressive. Now, the methodology of its creation, _that_ is most intriguing. Worthy of further investigation." Miro eyes the Arena in predatory interest.

"Yeah, sounds like a lot of fun. Thanks for the info," I say, already plotting my escape. I like Miro—if a bit cautious around him—but listening to him is like being trapped in front of the _Encyclopedia Britannica_ with your eyelids stapled open.

"You are welcome, Michael. It is ever my prerogative to enlighten the ignorant." The mage smiles, or at least what I think is supposed to be a smile.

Bud, you may be a genius, but you sure need a lesson in social skills.

We lapse into silence as Miro trains his observant stare on the Arena. Wordy or not, it was a soothing respite from darker thoughts. I can't say the same for the remainder of the trip. Even as Raimi guides us through Urbos Magni's inner gates, I'm fraught with unsavory ideas about my memory loss. I entertain everything from "hit my head" to "dark magic hex." Except I never hit my head. And who'd want to hex me? At the rate I'm going, I'll die some hilariously pitiful death before I'm anyone worth cursing. I sigh in frustration.

"This," I hear Vaiva shout, "is my kinda city!"

Virginie looks about beside her, ogling a muscular man. "I must confess, the men do possess a certain noble savagery."

Vaiva snorts. "I ain't talkin' 'bout the men, ya frilly dolt. I'm talkin' 'bout THAT!"

I follow Vaiva's outstretched arm to the object of her captivation. A lopsided, rickety wooden building squats between two much more stable brick ones. People stumble around the establishment, each person showing various signs of intoxication. Some can barely walk while others are still in the "hold my beer" phase. One man leans out a second-floor window singing a bawdy tune about "sweet Colette" and her famous bosom. I see men and women dancing inside, the whistling notes of a woodwind propelling their choreography. Merriment abounds. I'd call it a bar or tavern, but neither term fits.

"Ha!" Raimi stands beside Vaiva, hands on her hips. "Never seen a Feroxi vocatum before? Quite a riot!"

"That's what it's called? A vocatum?" Robin asks, looking apprehensive.

A half-naked man swaggers past Freya, winking. Her scowl makes him reconsider his life choices, and the man flees. And I thought she glared at _me_ like I'm filth. "A den of degenerates, more like," the knight says, her usual tact soured.

Raimi laughs, apparently unoffended. "After the last two days, I expect no less from Princess Chrom's loyal retainer," she chortles. "Though, I suspect some time in the vocatum might buy you a sense of humor." Ever since her defeat at the Longfort, Raimi has grown increasingly informal. Much to Freya's distaste.

"Highly doubtful." Freya locks her jaw while Raimi belts out another round of laughter.

Chrom offers her friend a sympathetic glance. This must be torture for a stickler like Freya. The "vocatum," really the boisterous and crass manner of Regna Ferox altogether, runs against her entire sense of decency. I shudder to think how Marius might react here.

We continue weaving throughout Urbos Magni's zigzagging streets, the thick of the city every bit as chaotic as the view from the mountains. If not for Raimi, our party would have gotten lost a long time ago. Not only is the Feroxi capital larger than Ylisstol, but its energy clouds the mind and entices you towards narrow alleys and shrouded nooks. The basic awareness training I've been doing with Freya doesn't help. There's so much happening I can barely process all the stimuli—children darting underfoot, street merchants advertising dubious potions, people tossing coins at musicians, indiscriminate brawling. Urbos Magni is the beating heart of vitality itself.

Finally, we enter a plaza. Across its breadth is an intimidating castle, jagged spires jutting from the main body like skyward swords. Golden dragons guard the entrance, sculpted with painstaking attention to detail. The castle's crowning feature, however, is the crimson dome capping the center. Obsidian streaks spiral down the bulb, glossy and opaque. Atop the dome stands a lone warrior, frozen as a marble watchman.

"Castle Ferox," Raimi states, walking forward while the rest of us stare. "Follow me. I'll take you inside."

Raimi leads the way, castle guards saluting as she passes. I don't know what her official rank is, but she's probably fairly high up the totem pole. Not just anyone can waltz into the castle and gain an audience with the Khan, on behalf of royalty or not. However she earned her position, it definitely wasn't because of her intelligence. Odds are she pummeled somebody into a pulpy mush.

Inside Castle Ferox, Raimi ushers us into a large chamber not far from the entrance. Judging from the square footage alone, this room is most likely for the Khan to address subjects. I'd say it's the throne room but for the fact there's no throne. No furniture adorns the space, just a barren, polished onyx floor. Instead of paintings or tapestries, weapons of all kinds hang from gilded burgundy walls. Most are clearly ceremonial, but a few look as if they could be pulled off and used in battle.

"Princess Chrom, allow me to summon the Khan," Raimi says. Chrom dips her head and Raimi disappears through a double door to the right.

The Shepherds pace the room as we wait for the Khan. Vaiva appraises a long axe, the kind a Viking berserker might wield. "Get a load of this," she says, nose practically touching the blade. "I wanna see one of them rotten freaks take on Teach with this in my hands."

"Is fighting all you think about, Vaiva?" Liston asks, staring at the axe over her shoulder. "You'd just lose it anyways."

Vaiva clucks her tongue. "Ya don't get a reputation like mine by knittin' scarves, squirt."

"A reputation for what? Being a damn fool?" Sullivan leans against the wall by the axe, smirking.

The blonde warrior makes an indignant face and raises a fist, but Freya strides over to intervene. "Need I remind you that we are guests, and this is the Khan's place of residence, not some dingy hovel? Do show some respect. You're Shepherds, not children. Naga preserve us if you two are supposed to be Ylisse's finest."

Sullivan and Vaiva grumble, but neither dares challenge Freya when her tone could slice steel. Always serious, always no-nonsense—that's Freya. I don't think I've ever even heard her laugh. The knight stalks away, sending the pair a parting scathing leer. I frown. Freya's stern, yes, but not cruel or hateful. Her attitude is different. Angry, maybe. Is being in Regna Ferox so unpleasant? Vaiva and Sullivan can be rowdy, but they didn't do anything worthy of so harsh a reprimand.

I look over to where Robin and Chrom stand. The tactician's in the middle of describing what sort of person they expect the Khan to be. "A mighty warrior ruler, eh? A giant man, thick arms and corded muscles. As tall a tree and as broad too! I can't forget his hairy chest either!" Robin chuckles, pleased with their description. Is that what Robin says in the game? Like so many other things recently, I can't remember.

"Am I now? By all means, go on!"

A short man, perhaps Virginie's height, arrives with Raimi at his side. Curly blond hair reaches just below his ears, the color startling against tan skin. Maroon and white armor covers his midsection while a cross between a pauldron and shield protects his left arm. He carries a sword nearly longer than himself propped on one shoulder. Again, a name escapes me. I know he should be a woman though.

Chrom and Robin hastily turn, the latter seeming quite embarrassed. "You're… Er, I mean… The Khan, I presume?" Chrom sputters, regaining her poise at the end.

"Expecting someone else? Maybe someone hairier or more tree-like?" the man asks, wearing a good-natured grin. "But yes, I'm one of them. The East-Khan. My name is Flavius. You're welcome in Regna Ferox, Princess Chrom, regardless of any trouble you had at the border." He gives Raimi a glance, who manages an ashamed fidget.

Robin bows so low they're almost bent ninety degrees. "Please excuse my earlier comments, Khan Flavius!" Hearing the name a second time, it comes to me. Flavia. That's who this is.

Flavius slaps Robin on the back. "I'll have none of that! Here in Ferox, we appreciate honest and plain speech." The Khan's brows knit as Robin straightens and rubs their back. "And for a dose of Feroxi bluntness… the hell are you?"

"I don't quite understand," Robin says, tilting their head.

The Khan sighs. "Man or woman. Which are you?"

The tactician brightens. It _has_ been a while since Robin's gotten the opportunity. "People do tend to seem confused about that. Is it not obvious?"

"Would I be asking if it was?!"

Robin smiles mischievously. "I suppose not… Let me put it like this: I'm very fond of flowers, but I also enjoy a good scary story. Does that help?"

Chrom steps forward. "Your Grace, Robin's gender is a mystery even to us," the princess explains. "And we've tried finding out several times." There's a collective groan from the Shepherds.

"This Robin here is a tricky one, then," Flavius says, seeming to accept the impossibility of a genuine answer. "But on to your reason for seeing me. Raimi tells me Ylisse seeks aid against a new threat. 'Risen', I believe you call them?"

"Correct. Undead monsters that look like men. I assure you there's nothing human about them, though." Chrom digs her thumbnail into Falchion, disdain for the Risen evident.

Flavius shakes his head. "Is it not enough to have Plegian bandits impersonating Ylisseans at the border? Unholy creatures as well?" The Khan grips his sword. "However, regrettably, I can't grant the troops you require. I lack the authority."

"Forgive me, but aren't you the Khan? What authority could you possibly lack?"

"I am _one_ of the Khans. Every few years, the East-Khan and West-Khan hold a tournament to determine who acquires total sovereignty over all Regna Ferox. I lost the last tournament, so I cannot forge an alliance or offer assistance." He growls the words. It's easy to tell this is a sore spot for Flavius.

The Shepherds share anxious looks. No one wants to return to Ylisse empty-handed. Without Regna Ferox, the Risen and Plegia's constant raids leave Ylisse weak and vulnerable.

Chrom's shoulders droop. "Then we're to receive nothing?"

"If you give up now, yes. But the next tournament is upon us, and I am in need of champions." Flavius studies our party, an optimistic sheen in his eyes.

"What part do we play in that?" Chrom asks.

Flavius is eager to inform. "Raimi reports that your 'Shepherds' are rather skilled. If you represent me in the upcoming tournament, I believe we can win. I'll become Khan Regent and grant your alliance. What say you?"

The princess swivels slightly to view us. We have no choice. Ylisse has no choice. Chrom faces Flavius again. "If this is the only way, then we will take up steel in your name. My people depend on it."

The Khan thrusts his arm toward Chrom. They clasp wrists, Flavius smiling. "I like you, Princess Chrom! This will be a tournament for the ages!"

Flavius offers to show Chrom the Arena, to which Freya insists on accompanying, leaving Raimi to escort those of us remaining to the castle's guest wing. Regna Ferox must value visitors because they've spared no expense in lavishly sprucing up the place. Or maybe we're just in the special VIP section? Chrom and Liston are Ylissean royals after all. At any rate, the hallways alone contain more gold and silver than I've seen in my lifetime. Seriously, does every window _need_ a sill made of solid gold? I suppose in Regna Ferox they do.

My quarters doesn't disappoint either. Elaborately designed rugs rest atop a lacquered wood floor. Mahogany? God, that grain is incredible. And it's so smooth it feels like glass. OK, someone's going to tell me how they made this. Regna Ferox, do you have the Holy Grail known as sandpaper? And sealer? I salivate a bit.

When I'm able to stop drooling over the floor, I take in the rest of the room. Fancy wardrobe, armoire thing? Check. Epic view of the city? Check. Horrifying wolf head on the wall? Check. Ridiculously huge bed with four posts and a curtain? Check. Even the best hotel I stayed in on Earth can't compete with this room. Of course, that was a European version of a Holiday Inn, but still. If this is my sleeping area, I can only imagine what Chrom's must look like.

I unlace my boots and flop spread eagle on the bed. Sorry, Tempur-Pedic, you lose. What's inside this mattress? Clouds and happiness? I snuggle into the blankets and let the soft plushiness envelop me. I don't realize how tired I am until I'm already dozing off. My muscles ache. My bones ache. My mind aches. Everything aches. And this bed is the remedy. I drift in a half-asleep state for some time before a series of pounding knocks sounds from my door. Moaning, I peel myself off the bed and trudge toward the noise.

Freya stands in the hall with her trademark glower. "Can I help you?" I ask hesitantly.

"I've come to collect you for training." She taps her foot.

Just when I'm getting comfy too. "Now?"

"If you have time to be idle, you have time to train," she says, already walking. "Move. We have work to do."

I should have known better than to think she'd let me relax. She doesn't even understand the concept. Freya leads me down a few flights of stairs, eventually landing us in a rectangular gymnasium of sorts. Training weapon racks line a wall, and several strange contraptions lie about. Medieval exercise machines? One seems like it might involve pulling a rope to lift a basket of stones. Another is a weighted wheel along a vaulted tract with planks attached to place one's feet. Never skip leg day, right?

"Khan Flavius has been gracious enough to lend us his training room. Don't break anything," Freya warns sharply.

I promise to be careful, and the session begins. Freya puts me through the usual routine—armored running, pushups, crunches, demonic repetitions of squats while she occasionally "tests my balance" by kicking the back of my knee. I sense that something's wrong, though, like when she went off on Sullivan and Vaiva. Freya's never shy with her criticism, but it's always about my performance, my failures, not me specifically. This time, she's personal.

"You're worthless! You're a waste of time!" she snarls, vitriol dripping. "You aren't fit to be a Shepherd! Why are you stopping? GET UP!"

I rein in the growing rage, harnessing it to continue. I won't allow her to win. If she's hoping to break me, it'll take more than this. Freya slings insult after insult. To be honest, it hurts. I do my best to ignore the nastiest ones, focusing on the drills instead. At last, I complete Freya's regimen, falling to the floor, hair matted against my forehead. Warmup, my ass. But it's easier than it used to be. Kind of.

Freya looms over me. "That was completely UNACCEPTABLE!" she howls. "Again! Do it all again!"

I roll my head so I can look up at her with my cheek pressed to the floor. "What?" I rasp, trying not to choke on my disbelief.

She leans in. "I said," Freya hisses, "do it again."

Yeah, this isn't the Freya I know. She may hate me, but she's not unfair. I right myself, matching her glare. "No," I say in defiance.

Her eyes flare. "Are you disobeying me?" she seethes, knuckles white from how tightly she clenches her fists. "You're a disgrace to yourself and everyone around you."

Springing to my feet, I shove my face close to hers. "What the hell is your problem? You've been acting like this all day." Longer than that actually. Since the Longfort, her mood has only gotten fouler.

Freya pushes me backwards. "You. You're the problem." Her face contorts in unbridled fury. "Why is it you? Do the gods mock me?"

My own anger diffuses, reforming as confusion. "What are you—"

"Twice!" Freya yells. "Twice you've been there for milady when I could not! I was unable to protect her… It is my duty to serve her with every ounce of my being. But I have failed. I failed as a knight and as milady's guardian."

Oh. She's mad at herself. Freya's simply taking it out on me. She was grateful after the fire, but I guess she's been bottling this up inside. I never considered how much turmoil she felt being out of control. And at the Longfort, I was the one who tackled Raimi. Me. The person who Freya nearly died saving from his own idiocy. I'd be angry too.

But shit. What do I say? I'm probably the last person she wants around. "Freya, you didn't fail," I say slowly. "I just happened to be there, and you know…" This is going poorly.

"Save your pity," she spits, tromping past. "This lesson is over."

I sidestep to block her path. "Hey, wait! You don't get to say that stuff and then just walk away." Deciding to risk it, I place a hand softly on her shoulder.

She shirks my hand. "Do _not_ touch me." Her eyes are molten bitterness. "Remove yourself or I shall do it for you."

I hold my ground, bracing for whatever happens next. "I won't. I'm not your enemy. Look, I know how you feel about me. I want to help, though. I understand—"

"You do not understand anything," she says icily, brushing me aside. I don't resist. Freya exits the room, simmering anguish left in her wake.

Goddammit. I made things worse. But what else could I do? Freya the Unflappable is doubting her capability as an adequate protector. I'll never be even half the Shepherd she is, so surely she recognizes I'm no reason to feel that way? Well, obviously not. Thinking about it stirs a boiling pot of irritation. Stupid Freya. If she wants to wallow in her woe-is-me bullshit, fine. Whatever. See if I care.

An _awful_ idea pops into my mind. The vocatum. Fuck this. I'm getting hammered.

Collecting an entourage to tear up Urbos Magni with proves fairly effortless. Vaiva and Sullivan readily agree, and Sumner and Stana relent after some quality peer pressure. Virginie can't pass up all the inebriated men, so she joins as well. We catch Chrom, Liston, and Robin on the way out of the castle, bringing our number to nine. Only Miro, Kelda (who we can't find), and Freya don't partake in the festivities. Miro because he's holed up researching God only knows what, and Freya because, well…

Anyways, it's plenty of people for a lively outing. We arrive at the vocatum just as the sun is slipping below the horizon. Compared to earlier, somehow more people have crammed into the space. Tangled masses of sweaty bodies jostle us around while the heady odor of alcohol circulates the air. Vaiva secures our group a table by relocating a few unconscious drunks to the floor. A waitress wearing a black dress and white apron takes our orders. She sends Sullivan a fetching smile as she disappears into the kitchen, to which the knight coughs and picks at a loose thread on his tunic.

All the dancing and music makes it difficult to hear, but we talk over the ruckus. "What did the Vaiva say, eh? Ain't this somethin' else? Ylisse could learn a thing or two from the Feroxi." The warrior smacks a palm on the table. "C'mon! Where're the drinks?!"

"Vaiva, we just ordered," Sumner says, flinching as an oafish man nearly hip checks him.

"Yeah but Teach is parched. And that won't do!"

Fortunately for "Teach," she doesn't wait long. Our waitress delivers the drinks, impressively carrying everyone's in one trip. I guzzle the contents of my mug. The ale tastes full and frothy, a citrusy tang at the end. Damn good. A flavor more than fit to help me forget all about Freya. Soon, I'm draining my fourth of the night, feeling a light buzz.

"Might want to breathe, Michael." Chrom sits beside me, watching me empty the tankard. Her own is mostly full. I don't know if it's her first or not. I've been so occupied drinking that I didn't notice the Shepherds settle into amiable pockets of activity. Sumner and Stana discuss the best recipe for a "chitterberry" pie, the latter clearly intent on eating one. Robin, Liston, and Virginie play some kind of guessing game. The tactician repeatedly blurts wrong answers and accuses Liston of giving bad clues—which he is. How is "sometimes brown" a viable hint for "donkey?" Sullivan and Vaiva bicker over whether a lance or axe is better. Plot twist: they're arguing about themselves.

Then there's Chrom. And me. "I am breathing," I reply. "Breathing this sweet, sweet juice."

Chrom rests her elbows on the table. "Pace yourself. You'll get sick."

"Don't tell me how to drink," I retort, waving at the waitress and pointing to my cup for a refill. She obliges, pouring amber fluid from a pitcher. "Ah, this stuff is great." I gulp a swig.

"OK. Out with it." Chrom straddles the bench, facing me. "What's wrong?"

I glare at the foamy bubbles topping my drink. "Nothing," I mutter.

"Nice try. Tell me."

"I don't wanna talk about it."

"Well, I do."

We hold gazes for a tense moment before I sigh. She's not going to stop pestering me, is she? "It's Freya."

Chrom looks surprised. "Freya?" she echoes. "What about her?"

"She went off on me in training today. Said she failed you as a guardian because I was there for you and she wasn't." I squeeze my tankard. "I even tried to be supportive! But noooo, she has to be all shitty about it."

"So, drinking yourself into a stupor is how you're coping?" Chrom snatches my cup. I swipe for it, but she keeps the drink out of reach.

"Give that back!" I protest. "I can make my own poor decisions."

She dumps the ale onto the floor, chucking the mug away. "No." Chrom frowns. "Pull yourself together. I'll talk to Freya. She's more sensitive than she looks. But Michael… when something doesn't go your way, will this always be your response? Freya's issues are her own, but your reaction is on you."

"Heya, girlie! I see yer hangin' on these men. Why don't I show yous a real man?" Chrom and I turn to see a stocky man, slicked back hair and bronze armor, clutching Virginie's wrist. The archer struggles, but his grip is firm. In the Shepherds, we know Virginie and her flamboyant behavior is just a quirk, an ultimately innocent flightiness. Other people, though? They might think she's something she's not. Doesn't matter. No one has the right to grab her like that.

I look at Chrom. "You want a better reaction? How's this?" Possibly emboldened by the booze, I stomp toward the sleazeball. "Hey, you gaping asshole, she doesn't want anything to do with you."

Her wrist slides from his grip as he eyes me. "Who the fuck are yous?" He puffs out his chest, sneering.

"I'm her friend. And I'm kindly asking you to fuck off." Farther away, this dude seemed smaller.

The man curls his lip. "Yous know who I am, boy? I'm Dergus the Wyvernblooded of Clan Talgar. Watch yerself."

I'm in too deep now. "I don't care if you're Dick McShitForBrains of Clan Fuckface. You and your clan can _fuck off_."

He wrinkles his nose and cracks his neck. Never dropping eye contact, he unfastens the straps of his vambrace and lobs it at my feet. "Pick it up," he says, gravelly and murderous.

"Don't, Michael. He's challenging you to a duel." Chrom whispers, having come up behind me. She pulls my shirt. "Let's leave."

Maybe it's the alcohol. Maybe it's the Freya debacle. Maybe it's that this guy is a total dirtbag. Maybe I'm just a dumbass. But I lean down and grasp the vambrace. Dergus grins maniacally, revealing several gold teeth.

I accepted a duel.

Aw, shit.

* * *

 **Author's Note: Oh, Mike… You and alcohol are not a good combination. Things were looking up for you, too. Shame on you, Mike. Shame on you. This chapter is a lot different from the last one. After all that action, I really wanted to invest in worldbuilding to breathe some life into the setting. Also, gotta have more character drama!**

 **I have to say, the response to the last chapter blew me away. So many reviews! So many follows! Favorites too! Of course, I owe this is no small part to ThreeDollarBratwurst's shoutout to me in the author's note of _Birth and Re-Death_ (which you all should read!). So, thank you TDB! You rock. And thanks for looking over this chapter as well. I appreciate all your help!**

 **To all my wonderful readers, we reached 100 followers. I'm so moved and overjoyed that people are finding my story worth reading. The recent traction this fic has gained has me so excited for the future! I have big plans in store, and I'm thrilled to have you all along for the ride!**

 **Scorin- I'm glad that the story is only improving with time. Those early chapters had me ironing out some kinks, but I'm really feeling it now! And I must confess, I greatly enjoy writing Mike and Freya's scenes. So much conflict!**

 **Geust- Ah, well, I would have loved to have you help out, but I'm afraid I never received a PM from you. I do hope all is well and that you keep enjoying the story!**

 **Yexius- A pegasus knight, huh? Well the animals do seem to love him. Who knows what may happen?**

 **Caellach Tiger Eye- As we've discussed in our PMs, I love your feedback and eagerly await all your reviews. You have a gift for breaking down the elements in a chapter and outlining how it contributes to the greater whole. Hopefully, this chapter provides more material to do the same!**

 **Serendipitous- Hurray for another year of school completed! Congratulations! :) As for Virginie, I'm pleased you mentioned it being ironic how men respond to her, since I tried to show how differently people treat men and women doing the same things at the end of this chapter. Now, someone drawing the characters? That's actually my dream. Fanart of this fic might cause my heart to explode.**

 **Cyberchao X- Holy turtle snacks, you reviewed a bunch! Thank you so, so much! I'm giddy that you like this story enough to do that. That means an awful lot to me.**

 **ThreeDollarBratwurst- I think you know I appreciate what you've done. When you told me you were reading this, I lit up. I still feel goofy about it haha**

 **Shizu23- If I wanted to avoid one thing in writing this, it was making sure Mike didn't become a Gary Stu. Your kind words are wonderful to hear. And while that wasn't a _direct_ reference to _Gamer of Fate_ , I'd be lying if I said I wasn't thinking about Gamer stories when I wrote that.**

 **RequiemAnon- Bless you for your consistent reviews! I, too, believe Stana made the whole chapter better. I think Mike really needed to hear that.**


	14. Freya

**Chapter XIV: Freya**

* * *

The view provided by the balcony outside milady's quarters at Castle Ferox is stifling. Disorganized clusters of buildings dot every direction, the sight from above somehow even more chaotic than the streets themselves. I tug my collar and pull my suit jacket tighter around myself. The chill doesn't help either. So far, everything about Regna Ferox has been decidedly unpleasant. Beset upon the moment we set foot in their territory, and the situation has only soured since. In no small part due to that fool Michael. My jaw clenches on reflex. What right does he have to be here? What trials has he endured? And yet… without out him milady would no longer be of this world. That fact angers me more than any fault Michael has. I consider myself a rational and pragmatic person, but when presented with the simple knowledge that Michael did twice what I could not, I devolve into a mess of rage.

I comb an aggravated hand through my hair, huffing out my nose. Is there a more frustrating combination than gratitude and loathing to feel towards another? My lips settle into a frown regretfully familiar to my face. Father would curse me if he still lived. I've dishonored his memory and made a mockery of my station. All my life has been devoted to serving the Exalted Family. I know nothing else. If… If I am not fit for this duty, then what am I?

Stinging tears wet the corners of my eyes. Self-pity does not become you, Freya. I wipe the offending droplets away, burying the emotions with a practiced effort. I came to milady's chambers to tidy up, not sulk. Leaving the balcony, I reenter her room, taking in again the mess milady has somehow already managed to create. Her things lie strewn about like an unpacking job gone horribly wrong. Garments of all types litter the floor, casualties of a failed attempt to shove them all into one drawer. At least she did not bring half her wardrobe like Prince Liston. The boy owns more doublets than any man has a right to possess. While milady may lack the grace and delicacy of a typical court lady, no one can accuse her of frivolity.

Gathering up the clothes, I lie them out on the bed, organizing them by color, fabric, and type. The process proves cathartic, and soon thoughts of Michael and my failures fades into an emptiness where only the task at hand exists. Folding clothes is enjoyable to me. I've always found my domestic duties pleasant (despite Marius claiming I am a stewardess). It would be easy for me to leave such chores to the maids and house servants, but this is often the only time I have truly to myself. A retainer lives for her charges. I am no different. Yet, 'tis refreshing to indulge in a moment of peace.

Never a moment too long, however. The sound of the door creaking open startles me from my rhythmic motions. Milady stands in the door frame, arms crossed. Her expression tells me she knows about the incident with Michael. "Milady," I greet, dipping my head. "I've taken this opportunity to straighten up your chambers. 'Twould not do for you live with your belongings scattered around."

Princess Chrom ignores my explanation. "Michael accepted a duel," she says, mostly flat but with a hint of distress.

I blink. Michael's foolishness knows no bounds. 'Tis always him, is it not? A fresh wave of anger sweeps over me. I keep my response cool. "Should I be surprised that an idiot has done something idiotic?"

"He was defending Virginie's honor," milady says, sighing. "Not that it makes it any less stupid."

A small scoff escapes my lips. "I fail to see what honor that flighty tart possesses. If anything, Michael is doubly the fool now."

Her gaze hardens. "You know as well as I do that Virginie's behavior is just an act. This is serious. Michael could die in this duel," she stresses. "He only has a week to prepare."

A week? Michael scarcely outclasses tavern wench in the ways of warfare. Unless his opponent is a one-legged old crone, he stands little chance of victory. "Who does he face?" I ask.

Milady tugs at a lock of blue hair. "Some lout called 'Dergus the Wyvernblooded.' Supposedly, his clan is rather important here in Regna Ferox."

"Well," I begin, my mouth a taut line, "I shall spare a prayer to Naga for his safety." The words are intentionally dismissive; Michael reaps what he sows.

Lady Chrom clinches her fists and strides toward me. "I won't defend Michael's decision, but don't pretend like you don't know what might have put him in a mood to do something like this."

I turn away, tracing the gilded patterns on the walls. "I have do idea what you mean, milady."

She sighs. "Michael told me what happened during your training session." Her voice softens. "Freya, do you truly feel as if you can't protect me? The Freya I know never doubts herself."

I knew I would regret showing my weakness to Michael. Slowly, I meet milady's eyes. "Lady Chrom, I failed to save you twice when you needed help. But _Michael_ was there. What use am I to you if… if someone like him..." I am unable to finish, failing to hide my emotions any longer. How pathetic I must seem.

The princess tilts her head and fixes me with a look I have given her myself many times over the years: one of tender warmth and love. "I'm not a child anymore, Freya. Things are not quite the same as when we ran through the castle halls barefoot and screaming." She chuckles lightly. "And you are only one person. As much as it seems so sometimes, you cannot be everywhere at once. I could not ask for a better retainer. But you must know you are far more to me than that. You are my oldest friend. No one can ever replace you."

I believe I can count the number of times I have wept in my life on both hands, and this marks the second time in a day. However, unlike the first, these tears cannot be merely wiped away. I stand before my princess and master sobbing at the kindest words I have ever heard, words I surely do not deserve. I feel milady's arms wrap around me, and I find my fingers clutching her tunic. We share this embrace for a long while, until my eyes dry and breathing evens. Eventually, I pull back, trying to reclaim some of my dignity.

"Milady," I say hoarsely. "Please promise me that we will never speak of this again."

She smiles. "On one condition." Milady holds up her index finger. "Help Michael survive his duel."

The request is unsurprising. As his instructor, 'tis expected of me. Still, the simple thought of being near him disgusts me. But I cannot refuse. Milady is fond of him. And a small voice deep within reminds me that it is not my nature to let anyone die I can save. "I will show him no mercy with my methods."

"I would not expect you to," Princess Chrom says, her grin falling. "I trust you. I know you don't like him, but he's a Shepherd. Michael is a good man, Freya."

"If only men were measured by virtue of their intentions and not the consequences of their actions, but 'tis not so," I say sullenly. "My opinion of him does not matter, though. I will do my duty."

Lady Chrom nods. "Good." She shifts her weight from side to side. "Freya… You should go talk to him. Clear the air."

I reflexively scowl. "I would rather not," I say. "I doubt he much wants to see me either. I see no reason to for us to interact beyond his lessons."

"Michael doesn't hate you, you know. I wouldn't call you his favorite person… but he doesn't hate you. Besides, allies ought to support each other."

"I fear that if you want Michael and I to _bond_ or something similar, you may be disappointed, milady."

She scratches her cheek. "Just go talk to him. He's upset because of you. Don't make me order you, Freya."

"I..." The protest tapers away as I see milady's pleading expression. "Fine. Where might I find him?" A sudden, perplexing thought enters my mind. "Actually, milady, where were you all that Michael was in such a place to be challenged to a duel?"

"Ah… Well, that's… Do you remember the building we saw on our way here? The one somewhat like a tavern? Raimi called it a vocatum." Milady seems decidedly sheepish.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. "You mean to tell me all this happened at that barbaric hovel? Need I even ask if drink was involved?"

"Michael may have had one… or five. I did tell him to pace himself!"

"So, if I am understanding this correctly, Michael accepted a duel while under the persuasion of alcohol?"

Lady Chrom manages half a shrug. "Yeah. That's about the gist of it."

"He truly is the most baffling moron I've ever encountered." I feel as if I should be more angry than I am. But 'tis almost better that he did something so foolish while not in a right state of mind.

Milady moves to sit down on the edge of her bed, kicking off her boots. "I think Michael is down in Khan Flavius' training room. I tried to tell him to get some rest, but he wanted to practice. He's stubborn. Like someone else I know."

I raise a brow. "If Michael and myself are stubborn, then you, milady, must be an entirely new definition of the word."

She rolls her eyes, making a shooing motion with her hand. "Just go to him. It will do you both some good."

Suppressing both a grimace and a final rebuttal, I bow and take my leave. I am incredulous that speaking with Michael will help matters, but there is no dissuading Princess Chrom once her mind is set. Still, Michael and I share little in common. I believe milady vastly overestimates our ability to reach an amicable resolution. At best, we can hope for polite niceties. I finger the scar marring my neck. 'Tis not so easy to forget past grievances.

Meandering through the halls of Castle Ferox, I make no haste on my way towards the training room. I haven't the faintest idea what to say to Michael. Subtle speech has never been my strongest asset. I take pride in my blunt style of conversation. Why mince words and dance about like finicky foxes when one can simply say what they mean? Often this means I say nothing at all while in noble company, but I do not afford Michael that respect. So why am I bothering myself with anxious thoughts about this "talk?" I should… I should… what? Apologize? My stomach convulses. Maybe it is best to tell him I will ready him for the duel and ignore the rest? Will he even accept my aid?

Unfortunately, I've run out of time to ponder the conundrum. My feet carry me to the training room before I realize. The man of my ire swings a practice sword in the center of the room, technique poor enough that I wish I could unsee it. He certainly looks like someone who recently accepted a duel while intoxicated. Disheveled brown hair poking out at odd angles, dark circles under his eyes, and a beginning beard that more says "tramp" than "charming rogue." Not that Michael could ever be charming. That generally requires a wit imbeciles lack.

I clear my throat, and Michael whips around. His eyes narrow as he returns to hacking at the wooden dummy before him. "What are you doing here?" he asks. "Come to act like a massive bitch again?"

He does make it _so_ difficult to be civil. "Milady suggested we talk. 'Clear the air' I believe she called it." I admit my attempt at a professional tone is soured by distaste.

"I have nothing to say to you," he grunts through strikes.

An uncomfortable silence lulls between us. I resist the urge to leave him be, determined to at least be able to report to milady that I tried. Settling on a subject I know well, I speak again. "Your form is terrible."

Michael throws the practice blade to the floor, the clattering echoing about the room. "You think I don't know that? You think I'm not trying my hardest to change that? I'm not in the mood, Freya. Fuck off."

"Milady informed me of your impending duel," I say, taking a step forward. "You've put your life at risk doing this."

"And what do you care?" Michael spits. "You'd be happy if I died."

I stare at the sword he dropped. Is that same one he's been whittling? Everyday? I sigh. "I would not."

"What?"

"You must think very little of me if you believe I'd take joy in your death." I know I've been… spiteful to him, but do I truly appear so callous?

He laughs bitterly. "You hate me. Isn't that part of hate? Nothing I do ever pleases you. And I sure as shit know I've fucked up a lot. Today included. But even when I'm giving it my all, you can't see me as anything more than a pathetic waste of space. Whatever. I guess maybe I am. You almost died because of me."

As I listen to him, my chest tightens in a way I don't quite comprehend. Do I hate Michael? Honestly? Milady said he does not hate me. And looking at him now, I do not see hatred. Shame, anger, frustration—but not hate. I cannot pretend I like Michael, far from it, though this "hatred" of mine is a charade. One I perpetuate to protect myself. I am jealous of Michael. Jealous that milady admires him. Jealous of the ease with which he interacts with my comrades. Jealous that he is at least brave enough to be true to himself. And I resent that everyone has forgiven him for what happened to me. Naga above, how petty. I will not change my opinion of him overnight, but Lady Chrom is right: Michael is at heart a decent man.

"I… I do not hate you, Michael." For once, I find it challenging to hold eye contact. "I envy you."

Michael appears dumbfounded. "Excuse me?"

I brace myself for the task of explaining. "From the moment you arrived, you have done nothing but disrupt the order of things I've grown accustomed to. You use crude language, alternate from heroics to harebrained foolery, and earned a position you don't deserve." His expression changes to a mingling of emotions I am unable to decipher. "All within mere weeks. I toiled my entire life to be worthy enough to stand beside the Exalt and her family as a retainer. My house has served the Exalts of Ylisse for generations upon generations. Always the firstborn son. My father had no sons, but I assumed the mantle despite all protests. And you just… just _insert_ yourself into the Shepherds and milady's circle instantly. With nary a skill to your name."

I find my lungs heaving after the dearth of words. Yet again, I exposed my inner feelings to Michael. Will he mock me? Call me prideful or entitled? I should not care, but how can I not when I've told him things no one else knows? Alas, I may be every bit the fool as he.

The man who confounds me like no other ruffles the hair on the back of his head. "I had no idea you felt that way," he says, lowering his hand to wring it within the other. "Well, that's not true. I had an inkling… But you're not wrong, Freya. I haven't earned any of this. I'm trying, though. It's funny. I'm jealous of you, too. You're amazing at everything you do. All the Shepherds respect you. You have all the strength I wish I had."

We feel… the same? A strange sensation sweeps over me, one without a name. Like watching your rippled reflection in a pool slowly calm. 'Tis unnerving, and I push it aside. "I grew strong to protect the Exalted Family. I am not special. I do what is required of me."

Michael clearly wants to say more. His mouth remains closed, however. Probably wise considering his propensity for dullard remarks. Perhaps he has some sense after— "So… Are we best friends now?"

I retract all praise I ever even considered accrediting him. I also laugh. I laugh louder and longer than I have in recent memory. I laugh in only the way an idiot like Michael could make me. He stares, wide-eyed, as my outburst subsides into breathy gasps.

"You laughed," he says blankly. "I didn't think it was possible."

Composing myself and selecting an adequate scowl, I glare at him. "I am but human."

He grins. "I forget sometimes."

Our eyes lock for several seconds. "The answer to your question is no," I say.

"It was rhetorical anyways."

What an insufferable dolt. 'Tis a miracle from Naga herself that this meeting achieved anything at all. But I do feel more at ease. What this milady's plan? I confess I never expected Michael and I to reach a mutual truce. Perhaps the animosity I hold for him will fade with time. Presuming he survives the duel. Which happens to be the most pressing matter at hand. "The night is late," I begin brusquely. "Meet me here at dawn. If you wish to win your duel, that is."

"You're helping me?" Michael asks.

"No student of mine will fall to someone with a title as asinine as 'Dergus the Wyvernblooded.' Even if that student is you."

He nods. "Thank you, Freya."

I turn to exit, casting a glance over my shoulder. "Save your thanks for after Dergus lies defeated." I leave him with those parting words, not taking a second look back. Though the weariness of fatigue from the long journey to Urbos Magni set in a few hours ago, I will not yet allow myself to sleep. There's a ritual of sorts I must perform. I reach my quarters and slip inside, feeling at peace finally being alone. I did not bring much to Regna Ferox aside from some clothes and essentials for battle, all of which I neatly unpacked earlier in the day. Excluding the one possession I keep on my person at all times: my collection of pebbles.

Removing the pouch from my belt, I empty its contents onto the soft linens of the bed. I know owning something like this is silly, childish even, but these stones I've gathered since I was a little girl. Each pebble has a unique story. One is a rock I claimed from the battlefield after my first skirmish. Another from the day I was officially named Royal Retainer. My thumb glides across a smooth gray stone, an onyx swirl down the middle. The one I clutched as I lay bleeding after the wolf attacked me. Finally, I grasp the newest addition, a crimson colored pebble I found this morning. To me, it symbolizes Regna Ferox, a new place and hopefully a new ally.

As is my custom with new pebbles, I set about polishing the surface, removing the imperfections with a rough strip of leather. The process takes time, but I am patient. My thoughts drift naturally to Michael's duel. There is no feasible method to prepare him within a week. Michael stands no chance against a seasoned warrior. Even the greenest knights of Ylisse would make short work of him. Yet, there must be a way to prevail. We will need to study his opponent, learn his style and its weaknesses. What can Michael exploit to gain an advantage? While I abhor a dishonorable strategy, Michael will never win fighting fair.

I look down at the now glossy pebble, wishing I had an answer. 'Twould be a lie if I said I am not apprehensive. There are no guarantees, no infallible way to assure victory. If only Michael was not prone to reckless action, we would not be in this cursed situation. I squeeze the pebble in my palm. Well, what's done is done. Only one path to follow remains.

Wiping my new pebble clean, I place it and the others back in the pouch. I spend a fleeting moment to gaze out the window, seeing Urbos Magni bathed in moonlight. The city at night only feels more constricting.

* * *

Michael and I meet each other the next morning in the Khan's training room. He manages to look worse than he did the day before, if possible. I contemplate a lecture on the importance of proper self-care, but conclude this is not the time. Despite appearing as if he ate an entire meal consisting of nothing but Sullivan's infamous duck soup, Michael seems eager to begin the training.

That eagerness falters slightly when I explain we won't be swinging around swords like swashbuckling pirates. A duel is different from combat on the battlefield. 'Tis less chaotic and takes places just as much in the mind as in reality. One does not attempt to cook without a recipe or ingredients—unless that person is Sullivan making duck soup—and similarly one does not attempt a duel without proper planning.

"Today, we will find this Dergus fellow and watch him train," I tell Michael. "You are dueling him, not me. You barely have a foundation for sparring anyways. Your daily lessons will need to be suspended for now to adopt a more focused approach."

Michael frowns. "And do you know where Dergus is? Because I don't."

I shake my head. "No, but I imagine the Khan might. Lady Chrom mentioned Dergus is of a clan well-known in Regna Ferox."

"Yeah, Clan Talgar," Michael supplies. "He ranted on and on about it after I accepted the duel. Apparently, insulting someone's clan is a big deal. So big that you need to have a duel in front of everyone in the clan to defend its name. It's some shit."

"Khan Flavius is discussing the logistics of the tournament with Princess Chrom today. I can ask him about Clan Talgar then."

"So," Michael says, "I'm assuming I won't be allowed in on this discussion. What am I doing during all this?"

I gesture around at the training room. "You have your exercises, do you not? Or do you expect to defeat Dergus with a fearsome display of infantile whining?"

He glares as I stare smugly at him. "How do you know Dergus won't be trying to watch me train? Did you think of that?"

"Because anyone who looks at you can tell you've all the experience of a mewling kitten. Dergus will train normally as all warriors do. You aren't a threat to him. He underestimates you." Arrogance is the downfall of many men. Michael at least has the power of the underdog on his side.

"You're making it awfully hard for me keep a positive outlook," he grumbles. "It's like I'm David and he's Goliath."

Ah, the old legend. It does apply somewhat to Michael's plight. But 'tis only a children's tale. "I am afraid it will take more than a slingshot to topple Dergus."

"Wha..." Michael blanches and stumbles back. I reach out to steady him, bewildered. Did I say something strange? Or is this an aftereffect of a night of drinking? Gods, Michael, pull yourself together.

"If you plan to… release your stomach, please do it elsewhere," I say, pursing my lips.

He recovers a bit, straightening, but breathing unevenly. "N-No… I'm fine," he stutters. "Could you… Could you repeat what you just said?"

"I said if you plan to—"

"No!" he snaps. "Before that!"

Michael is an odd man, but he has never behaved like this. "About David felling Goliath with a slingshot? Michael, what is that matter with you?"

His face contorts into a pallid mask, and he brushes past me. "I… I'm sorry, Freya. I'm not feeling well. Just… Just please come get me after you talk to the Khan." He all but sprints down the hall and out of sight.

My inherent skepticism activates. Obviously, that was a lie. What I do not understand is what caused such a reaction. I retrace the conversation. Nothing I said should have warranted that. Did anxiety regarding the duel overcome him? He was normal before, though. Albeit bedraggled. 'Tis as if… as if he was shocked I knew the legend of David and Goliath. But that is absurd. There cannot be a man or woman in Ylisse who does not know the folktale of David felling the Plegian giant, his stone blessed by Naga. I will confront Michael about this later. And hopefully learn he is not deranged in some way.

The mystifying encounter plagues me throughout Lady Chrom's conference with Khan Flavius. Fortunately, I remember to ask about Clan Talgar, which the Khan graciously explains have a gathering forum not far away. If Dergus is to be found, he shall be there. Though, the question does require informing the Khan of the rather embarrassing affair Michael embroiled himself in. Khan Flavius thinks the whole ordeal immensely amusing and wishes Michael luck. He also provides some valuable information about Feroxi dueling ceremony, enough to stir the wisps of a plan. A plan I am not entirely comfortable with. But sitting here listening to Khan Flavius speak of the brutality in a Feroxi duel, I realize that Michael truly cannot hope to win by abiding the rules. He has many faults, but saving Michael's life comes before preserving his or my honor in this particular case. Though it galls me to cast aside personal morals, 'tis more moral to protect a man from a fate he does not deserve. I promised Lady Chrom I would keep him safe. And Freya, Knight Retainer of Ylisse, does not break her vows no matter what they require.

I quickly excuse myself as soon we've finished. Under normal circumstances, I would consult with milady about the training regime and roster for the tournament. Three weeks is so little time to arrange things before we fight to possibly determine the fate of Ylisse. But the more I dwell upon Michael, the more I need to rid myself of these puzzling questions. Not to detract from the fact we still must locate Dergus as well.

Several minutes pass as I stand before Michael's door, wondering how best to broach the subject of his meltdown. Eventually, I decide to opt for my specialty of directness. Michael opens the door a few moments after I knock, regarding me carefully.

"Did the Khan say anything helpful?" he asks from inside his room.

"Yes, he did," I reply and pause. "But first tell me what happened earlier. You went pale as a wraith for seemingly no reason at all."

He sighs, as if expecting the inquiry. "I'd rather not. Can you let it go?"

Suspicious. But why? "No. I gave your episode some thought. It… does not make sense."

Michael runs a hand through his hair. "It's not what you think," he says.

"I'm not sure what I think. Other than that you might be unhinged. You brought up the legend of David and Goliath first. And then proceeded to lose your mind when I responded with information anyone would know."

"That's… not it. Of course you know the story. We all do." Michael says tentatively. "I had a panic attack."

My brows knit together. "A what?"

"A panic attack," he repeats. "Sometimes… when I feel overwhelmed or… scared, I get like that. A rising feeling of, well, panic. That's why I call it a panic attack. They don't happen often, but I can't control it when they do. You mentioned the slingshot, and I realized what I said and it all came crashing down on me. That I might die." Michael's eyes are vulnerable, cautious.

As far-fetched as it sounds, I confess I have no alternate explanation. "We've been in more perilous situations. Why hasn't this happened before?"

"It has. Just not with anyone else around. Usually at night." He looks at his boots before back up at me. "Freya, this is my personal issue. I don't want anyone else to know."

"What if it endangers another?"

"It won't."

"You said you can't control it."

Michael smacks his arm against the door, and it takes effort for me not to flinch. "Dammit, Freya! Don't you get how ashamed I am of this? As if I'm not weak enough already. Please… just keep my secret."

I'm taken aback by the intensity in his voice. 'Tis true: a… condition like this would cause me shame as well. Yet, he never exhibited any signs until now. Miro might know something more about it. But for lack of evidence to the contrary, I choose to believe him. For now. "Your affliction shall remain between us, then. But should it ever interfere with the well-being of any other, I will not hesitate to act."

Relief washes over his features. "Thank you, Freya. I appreciate this. Really."

I nod slowly, suddenly feeling like I've just played my part in an unknown script, a rehearsed scene of Michael's own design. Not sinister, however. And because of that, I shrug it off. I will keep an eye on him, as I always do. I suspect he has not told me the whole truth, but perhaps the rest he doesn't trust me with. I cannot blame him when I do not trust him myself. At any rate, Michael begins prodding me about what the Khan said, and I reorder myself to the present matter.

Michael's demeanor lightens as we trek across Urbos Magni to spy upon Dergus. His fascination with the city far outstrips my own. Whether it be a banal merchant stall or an inebriated bout of fisticuffs, Michael treats everything as a grand experience. One might think he'd never walked around in a city before. Was Ylisstol not interesting enough? To distract myself from Michael's slack-jawed commentary, I study the mountains and landscape surrounding Urbos Magni. Regna Ferox boasts a tremendous natural beauty. Not on the level of Ylisse but spectacular nonetheless. Snowy peaks and glaciers protect the city from invasion while stunning visually, pragmatic and idyllic. Michael can gape all he wants at grubby shops—I am content with mountain ranges winding like the spine of a regal ice dragon.

Nearly half an hour passes before Michael and I reach Clan Talgar Hall. Calling it a building is not quite correct. Ylisse has no equivalent. The Hall is a pavilion of sorts supported by sturdy vertical logs. Underneath the roof, members of Clan Talgar engage in mock combat or greet one another and share ale. The stench of sweat wafts through the air, and I wrinkle my nose. A steel sign hangs from an awning over what I assume to be the entrance. I cannot read the Feroxi runes given how peculiar they are compared to Ylissean, but somehow I doubt many of these people can either.

"That's him!" Michael exclaims beside me.

I follow his gaze toward a stout man, hair combed back in a greasy mane. He's a good head taller than myself and built not unlike a bear. Under that fat is clearly a layer of corded muscle. Just how much did Michael drink?

"What now?" Michael asks. "Do we tail him? It looks like he's just hanging around. Actually, how do we know he's even going to do something useful to watch?"

"Khan Flavius said all Feroxi clansmen spar daily in their Hall. The older warriors train the younger ones. 'Tis a custom. Everything revolves around battle here."

Michael squints at Dergus. "OK. But is he a younger or older warrior? He's too ugly to tell."

"I..." Dergus _is_ quite unattractive. But he's no older than Michael or myself. "A young one. Keep in mind that in Ferox a young warrior is still a hardened soldier. The dynamic of old and young is more about respecting an elder than prowess."

He hums in acknowledgment. "I suppose we're going to wait until something interesting happens?"

We do not need to wait long. A silver-haired man clasps forearms with Dergus after a few minutes. From our vantage point, 'tis difficult to see both men at once. Luckily, they move into a more open area and square off against one another. The speed of the older man surprises me. He weaves around Dergus nimbly, darting in and out with light blows. Dergus adopts a defensive posture, deflecting strikes with his shield and pivoting to always remain facing his opponent. I peer over at Michael, who to his credit is watching with rapt attention. As I focus again on Dergus, the hefty man parries a weak thrust and bashes the other man with his shield. The force sends the man to ground, and Dergus finishes by placing his blade against his neck before helping him up.

"Shit," Michael says. "Dergus is fucking terrifying."

"Is that all you learned?" I ask, turning towards him.

"Well, I mean," he starts, toying with his beard. "He doesn't move much."

"And why do you think that is?" Remember awareness, Michael. Prove to me you gained something from our sessions.

"Uh… He's fat?"

Such a way with words, Michael. "That's part of it," I say, pointing at the pair gearing up for another round. "Watch again."

The second match ends with a similar result, though the silver-haired man forced Dergus to chase him more. Even from here, I can see Dergus panting.

"He has no stamina," Michael notes, snapping his fingers.

I almost smile. "Exactly. Let us see if their third fight unfolds the same way."

By this point, the older warrior has figured out Dergus. He baits him with feints and taunts, all the while keeping out of range of Dergus' power. When Dergus can only offer a lax resistance, the other man unleashes a barrage of superior swordplay. He disarms Dergus and scores a clean blow to the chest, fatal with a real weapon.

"He doesn't seem that tough now," Michael says, flashing a crooked grin.

"Don't be a fool." I slap the back of his head. "Dergus will annihilate you."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," he grunts, rubbing his head.

I wear an austere expression. "You have _one_ advantage. One. In every other category, you lose."

"Am I supposed to run around him in circles? What does that accomplish?"

"Did you see what that man did? He made Dergus waste energy. Dergus is powerful but slow and lacking endurance." I squeeze Michael's bicep, which feels firmer than I thought it would be. "Even a weak fighter can save the strength to defeat him when he's tired."

He jerks his arm away. "OK. I get it. I'm no Sullivan. But you're saying all I need to do is wear him down?"

"'Tis not so simple. You lack the skill," I say, my next words already leaving a bad taste. "You're also going to cheat."

His mouth trembles before breaking into a wide smile, the conspiratorial kind Lord Liston often has. "Freya… I believe I've misjudged you."

I've never been devious. At the Ylissean Knight Academy, my peers unanimously voted me prefect. I wore that badge with pride. Some may call me inflexible, but rules and regulations prevent society from disintegrating into madness. I concede that I relish routine and cherish the predictability one grants. And so it deviates from the core of my beliefs to formulate this plan.

I meet Michael's eyes. "According to Khan Flavius, the laws of Feroxi dueling state each party must drink a goblet of ritual ale before the fight."

"So?"

"So… surely it might be unfortunate if Dergus found himself falling asleep during the duel?"

Michael's face tells me 'twould be very unfortunate. Very unfortunate, indeed.

* * *

 **Wow. So, I owe all of you a massive apology for vanishing. Truly, I am sorry. Life kind of caught up and slammed me. I got swept up in volunteer work, and while my health is still improving, mentally I've been fried for a while now. But I'm getting back up to speed. Honestly, though, there isn't an excuse. I know a lot of you love this story and looked forward to new chapters. So let me promise you all right now that this story is very important to me, and I won't be letting it fall by the wayside. So many great fics have been abandoned. This one will not be one of them. I owe it to myself and to all of you to continue writing. Plus, I love doing this. It's fun. More fun than doing just about anything else. I can't say how long it will take to finish this story or how often the updates will be (faster than this I swear), but we will reach the final chapter one day.**

 **So, about this chapter. As you read, it's from Freya's POV. I decided to write it like this because Freya has been a major character for the entire story, and I felt like we deserved a look inside her head. I hope you enjoyed this change of pace. The story will return to Michael's POV next chapter (though you may get a Chrom POV down the road!).**

 **I need to send a special shoutout to ThreeDollarBratwurst, author of Birth and Re-Death, for keeping me engaged and motivating me to keep going (even when they weren't trying to). Helping out with BaRD was often the only thing I was doing on FFN during these past few months. So thank you, friend. You're the best.**

 **And thank all of you as well for continuing to read and support me. I'm not sure I could do it without you all. I couldn't ask for better readers. And on that note, as always, review responses:**

 **Geust- You did set up an account and message me, so yay! Unfortunately, I disappeared. But I'm back now!**

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	15. Time to D-D-D-Duel!

**Chapter XV: Time to D-D-D-Duel!**

* * *

Two questions have haunted me for the past three days. One, how in the nine levels hell are we going to manage to spike Dergus' ale, and two, why the _fucking fuck_ does Freya know about David and Goliath? Number one, I can deal with the uncertainty there. Sure, failing will probably result in my painful and torturous death, but that's just an occupational hazard at this point, right? The second question, though? That's another matter. No one in this world should be familiar with Earth stories, let alone of a biblical nature. I've reached no logical conclusion regarding it so far. Unless some ancient Hebrews fell into Archanea randomly and spread some Old Testament love, Freya casually understanding my offhand remark makes no sense. At least Freya seems to have bought my "panic attack" excuse for now. I regret flipping my shit, but that kind of news just doesn't compute.

To compound the issue, my memory loss is only getting worse. Elibe, Magvel, etc, are still fine, but my recollection of _Awakening_ 's events and other games taking place on this planet keeps evaporating. I'm beginning to fear that some day I'll wake up and no longer even remember this is supposed to be just a video game. If that day comes, I'm not sure if my brain can handle the stress. I do my best to shelve the subject, tuck in away in shadowy recesses of my consciousness, though the gnawing dread won't allow it. And neither will the crippling migraines that happen every time I'm on the verge of regaining crucial information.

I pause my work on the new wooden sword I've begun. I can't focus like this. Foreign constellations twinkle outside my room's window. I should be sleeping anyways, not wasting energy whittling and worrying under dim candlelight. Freya undoubtedly has more soul crushing training planned tomorrow. Thankfully, we finished our third and final day of Dergus Spying today, so the real work starts soon. She intimated plainly enough that even with Dergus drugged, he would still last a while before the sedative kicked in. During that waiting period, I will need to rely on skill to survive. Something of which Freya also clarified I have precious little. As if I didn't already know.

Exhaling roughly, I stand, brushing wood shavings off my trousers. A good night's rest isn't happening at this point. Time for a walk. The dark halls of Castle Ferox absorb sound, dulling my footsteps to manufacture an insulating silence. I know there are guards patrolling somewhere, but the corridors feel as if all else is frozen in the stillness of the night. It's not an eerie sensation, however. After all, this isn't the haunted depths of Castlevania. Dracula never seemed to care much about inviting décor as he did screwing with the Belmonts. Khan Flavius prefers layering everything with a dusting of gold thick enough to make Anna blush. Regna Ferox embraces the idea of "if you've got it, flaunt it."

I enter an expansive chamber, towering windows at the far end overlooking the courtyard. Like many room in this castle, I wonder what its purpose is. Given the wide surface area and marble floor, a ballroom would be my best guess. Or, considering Feroxi inclinations, maybe another place to beat each other senseless. I'm more interested in the figure standing in front of the windows anyways.

Even in the poor lighting, I recognize their coat. "Robin," I say, walking towards their position. "Can't sleep either?"

Robin shifts around sharply, their silhouette haloed by the moonlight. "You startled me, Michael. Forgive me, I was lost in thought."

"That's what tacticians do, right?" I say, shrugging. "Any reason you're out here, though?"

"You said it yourself: can't sleep. My room was getting a bit stifling."

The Shepherds' resident amnesiac holds the distinction of being both incredibly easy and incredibly difficult to talk to. Robin cares about everyone, but they also have a tendency to hit hard when it comes to personal matters. And at the moment, I'm fishing for what to say.

"Regna Ferox sure is something." I settle for banal and innocuous.

Robin nods thoughtfully. "For an entire nation to determine their ruler based on a tournament fought by outsiders certainly surprises me."

I didn't expect a genuine, thorough answer. However, this _is_ Robin. "Good for us. Winning the tournament means an alliance."

"If we win."

"With you at the helm, I doubt we won't."

A strained expression passes across Robin's face. "Nothing is ever assured. So many things could go wrong, and it's my job to make sure they don't. Everything hinges on this tournament," Robin says, seeming to sink into their coat. "But let's put that aside. What about you? Your duel is coming up."

Of course Robin will steer the conversation in that direction. "What's there to say? My prospects aren't great, even with Freya's plan."

"The two of you haven't been around the castle much. What exactly is your strategy?" Robin asks. Freya determined that the fewer people we involve, the better. Ylisse can't afford to lose aid from Regna Ferox. The rest of the Shepherds need to concentrate on the tournament. My duel can't jeopardize that. Still, it doesn't hurt to pick Robin's brain.

"Hopefully, we're going to drug Dergus before the duel. Tamper with the ceremonial ale. We haven't come up with a solid way to do that, though," I say, leaving an intonation on the last few words.

Robin frowns and peers down at the courtyard. "This was Freya's idea? Unorthodox, considering the source."

"Trust me, I know. I can feel her skin crawl every time it's mentioned."

"She must be committed," Robin says with a small smile. "But if you're hoping to lace the ale yourselves, I don't believe you'll succeed."

I hold out my arms limply. "Enlighten me, oh wise one. Seriously, I've got nothing."

Producing their notebook, Robin flips through the pages until reaching their destination. "After that night at the vocatum, I did some research on Feroxi dueling," they admit, glancing up at me. "I wrote down whatever I thought might be worth knowing. Both duelists drink at the same time. The goblets are filled from the same pitcher. All this is overseen by the duel official. So your chances of pulling anything are slim to none."

While I'm both caught off-guard and pleased that Robin went through the trouble, their words aren't very encouraging. "Then… I'm screwed?"

They shake their head, tapping their journal. "Not necessarily. The official is required to wear a ritual mask. If said official was to be replaced with a friend, then..."

"They could slip the potion into Dergus' cup," I finish, suddenly beaming.

Robin stows their book back inside their coat. "And I will be that friend."

My grin falters. "You don't have to do that. You've done more than enough. Besides, prepping for tournament is more important than my duel. The Shepherds need you."

"This isn't up for debate," Robin says firmly. "I'm doing it. Sorry, but I want you to live, Michael."

"But why you? The tournament—"

"You still don't get it, do you, Michael?" Robin cuts me off, pushing a finger into my chest. "You're my _friend_. All of you are. This is what friends do. I refuse to accept losing anyone. If we don't return to Ylisse with every single one of us intact, I will have failed."

I chew my tongue for a moment, digesting Robin's declaration. Why do I constantly feel like everyone is accommodating for me? Since Freya's injury in the battle with the Risen, I've invested all my energy into changing, growing strong so that I'm not dragging everyone around me down. What do I do instead? Drunkenly decide to fight someone way out of my league. It's pathetic. I _hate_ being weak.

"This is my own fault anyways, Robin," I say, hanging my head. "I'm just a bunch of big talk. I'm pretty much a waste of everyone's time."

Robin places their hands on my shoulders. "Michael, do me a favor and shut up," they snap. "This self-deprecation ends _now_. Who do think you are, Michael? Do you think hating yourself justifies anything? No one wants you to leave. No one thinks you're worthless. You've made some mistakes, hurt us, but why do think you're still here? Because you proved to all of us that you want to give your best. At the Longfort, we saw who you really are. The only one who doesn't is you, Michael. I'm not going to stand and listen to you degrade yourself. Grow up and accept that you can't hide behind being powerless anymore. Because it's not about that. It never was. You're a Shepherd. And there's no going back."

The speech ruins me. Robin, you really know how to fuck a guy up. _When one of us falls, we all fall_. Stana, too. God, I'm such an idiot. I asked for this. Isn't it rule number one not to ask for something you can't handle? Joining the Shepherds isn't just being a soldier. It's being a friend, and letting others be friends to you as well. I know that. But I'm still wrapped up in myself, making everything about me. _I'm_ a burden. _I'm_ weak. _I'm_ not good enough. I do need to improve. That's a fact. Yet, the Shepherds are more than just me. _When one of us falls, we all fall_. Berating myself doesn't help anyone. Like Robin said, being powerless isn't the problem. Not relying on the power of my friends to help me is. Support and be supported.

"I'm sorry, Robin. You're right," I say. "I understand that I'm not alone."

The tactician smiles, releasing my shoulders. "You better. We all struggle. No one is perfect. Some are more powerful than others. But it's one's heart that matters."

"Well, being handy with a sword is useful, too," I add wryly.

"Good thing you're learning," they chime. "My point is that you can be a Shepherd without much skill, but you can't if you don't have heart. I haven't been around any longer than you, Michael. You've seen the same things I have. We fight, yes. We must. Even so, we all contribute. You included."

"I don't think Dergus cares much about my heart. Other than ripping it out." I give a grim chuckle. "I get it, though, Robin. Thanks. You're a lot smarter than me."

Robin snorts. "Just keep learning and training. Hard work and effort always pay well." They point a thumb at themselves. "And leave impersonating the match official to me. I'll have Miro whip up a sleeping draught. Don't worry. Plans are my specialty."

I trust Robin. We share a look and lapse into silent contentment. Eventually, Robin yawns and tells me they're heading back to try and get at least a few hours of sleep. I'm not sure how long I stare out the window after they leave, but the pink light of dawn dyes the sky when I finally move. A sleepless night. Freya won't be pleased. Fatigue frays my brain, my muscles, reminders of insomnia's price. Hopefully, I'll make it through Fanatical Fitness Hour without collapsing. Might be doable if it was actually just an hour. But Freya Time is not of this world.

Begrudgingly, I drag myself to the training room, morning sunlight gradually wiping away the vestiges of night along the way. I arrive to Freya already waiting there. She's traded her formal suit for a tan leather jerkin over a white shirt and black pants. The outfit alone means today will indeed be different. I'd say Freya straightens upon seeing me, but her posture's so perfect I can't really tell.

We exchange curt greetings before launching into a now familiar exercise routine. Freya watches impassively as I attempt to persevere through her regimen, the effects of sleep-deprivation reaching a climax by the armor-clad running. Around the twelfth lap, I'm barely staying upright. It's amazing I made it this far, honestly. My legs might as well be sacks filled with cement and Jell-O. A spell of dizziness spins me in circles, and I land in a tangled, perspiring heap on the floor. Unlike our last session, when Freya went Full Metal Jacket on my ass, she merely stands above me with a disappointed scowl.

"Care to elaborate on why your performance is so uninspiring?" she asks. "You seem to have regressed into the Michael of two weeks ago."

"I didn't sleep last night," I confess, rolling over to lie spread eagle.

She closes her eyes and sighs in what I am beginning to believe is a trademark reaction reserved solely for myself. "Dergus _will_ kill you if you don't rest properly. How do you intend to fight if you pass out from poor self-care?

I snuggle against the floor. "Well, I'm banking on Dergus doing the passing out, actually. Do you think we should bring a blanket? You know, in case he gets cold?"

"Hilarious," Freya deadpans. "We still have no method of administering the drug."

"About that." I sit up, propping on my elbows. "Robin offered to handle it. They did some reading on dueling here, and it looks like the solution is to swap places with the duel official."

Freya crosses her arms. "I do not trust Robin. They've shown no devious behavior as of yet, however, they can easily sabotage our efforts."

"You saying you trust Robin less than _me_?" I roll my eyes. "Half of us would be dead by now if not for Robin."

"Possibly an elaborate ruse. Robin is capable. You, on the other hand, are almost wholly incompetent." The ghost of a smirk teases her lips.

Rising from the floor on shaky legs, I pull a mock affronted face. "What, and you're not going to consider that I could be faking it too? Face it, Freya, you just have a hard-on for Robin."

A rosy tinge colors her cheeks, a very alien expression. "I-I beg your pardon?"

"You have it out for Robin. They've done nothing but good things. Relax. Besides, we need their help." It's my turn to smirk. "Or are you confused about what a 'hard-on' is? Well, you see, when a guy—"

"I do not require an explanation, thank you very much!" Freya objects, a little too loud. Coughing slightly, she continues. "My station dictates I must be vigilant with all potential threats to the Exalted Family and the Shepherds. I am simply concerned with the many mysteries surrounding Robin. You are correct, though; we can benefit from Robin's assistance."

I offer a cheeky smile. "So, we agree?"

"'Tis perhaps our best option, regrettably." She smooths her jerkin. "Enough of this. There are four days remaining until the duel, and you'll not defeat Dergus if we chatter aimlessly." Freya turns around, walking towards a weapon rack. Deliberating momentarily, she selects a lance and sword, followed by a pair of shields. Facing me once more, Freya slides the shield along the floor and tosses the lance to me. I fumble with the shaft, trying to gain a firm grip, but it falls. The resulting clatter echoes as a deriding tune to my lackluster hand-eye-coordination. I hastily pick up the spear while Freya plucks a speck of lint from her pants.

"I would have caught it if I'd been ready," I say, grasping the shield as well.

"Of course," Freya drawls. "A soldier must always be ready, Michael."

I study the lance so I don't have to look at her smug face. Obviously, the first thing I notice is that this is a real weapon. That revelation is followed by indignation that Freya threw a metal death pole at me. "This lance isn't wooden. What if you'd impaled me?"

Freya inclines her head at the spear. "Look at the tip. The blade is dulled." She lifts her sword. "So is this. You must acclimate yourself to the weight of real arms."

That makes sense. Training with wooden practice weapons is good for form and technique, but Dergus and I won't be swinging tree branches at each other. "Why a lance, then?"

"As you know from observing Dergus, he wields a sword. You are complete novice and need every advantage. A lance boasts greater range and suits our tactic of maintaining distance." She twirls her sword and balances it atop her shield. "I shall imitate Dergus' style. Now come. Show me what you can do."

"Er… Just like that? No basics? No fundamentals?" Freya never even let me hold a sword in our previous lessons. Then again, I wasn't accepting duels from angry thugs either.

"You are practicing how to counter Dergus specifically. We have no time for anything else." She bends her knees and angles her body. "Attack me!"

Well, here goes. I brace the spear between my arm and torso as I approach, keeping my shield level with Freya's. Each step forward makes my stomach churn and quake. I have no idea what I'm doing. My best sources of inspiration are the battles I've seen here and the no doubt woefully inaccurate historical and fantasy films I've watched. Is there a reason no one cool in _The Lord of Rings_ uses a lance? Freya's gaze follows my every movement, unblinking. Her stance leaves no openings I can see. The shield doesn't protect her legs though. Choosing her right knee, I close the gap enough to thrust. What happens next is so fast my eyes barely keep up. Freya pivots on her back leg, sidestepping and flicking the shaft of my spear up with her sword. With the hand still holding her shield, she grabs the lance and pulls me toward her. Next thing I know, her blade is against my throat.

"Dead," she says, releasing me. "Do you know why?"

"I'm gonna assume there's more than one reason," I say dryly.

Freya slaps the flat of her sword against my thigh. "One, balance." She whacks my hand. "Two, grip." A light tap on the head. "Three, awareness."

I massage my knuckles. "You didn't exactly give me any pointers."

"Failure is part of gaining experience. Now you know not to strike where I'm baiting you."

Suppressing a fair amount of grumbling, I listen as Freya explains how I went for the one spot she wanted me to. And how my eyes betrayed my intentions. And how I hold the spear too close to the base. And how my feet aren't far enough apart. And how I hesitate too much. And how I'm not paying attention. Basically, I'm green unit tier fodder.

So, we train. I "die" repeatedly. Freya disarms, trips, punches, and kicks me—all calculating maneuvers to attain swift victory. Her impregnable defense blocks every blow, in turn leading to my invariable demise. When I finally catch her sword on my shield, she sweeps my legs and ends it right there. The humiliation snowballs until she manages to steal my lance and finish me with it. Freya shows no mercy.

Exhausted and frustrated, I resort to desperate measures. Rearing back, I hurl the spear at Freya. Her eyes widen as she deflects the projectile with her shield before advancing on me. I panic, realizing I have only my shield. Backpedaling, I rapidly find myself running out of space until I'm pressed against the wall, Freya calmly drawing nearer. Her first slash rattles my shield arm when I intercept it. I lose my grip on the second, shield rolling away. She doesn't need to tell me I'm dead.

" _Never_ let go of your weapon," Freya orders. "There is no surer way to find an early grave."

Groaning, I shoulder past her. "I can't even touch you."

She hovers behind me. "You aren't thinking. You don't force me to change my strategy."

"Yeah, well, maybe if you were a better teacher, I wouldn't have this problem." I want to shove the words back into my mouth right after saying them. "I'm sorry… I didn't mean that."

Freya silently collects my lance and shield and stows them on the weapon rack. "We're finished for today. We shall start fresh tomorrow." She keeps her back to me.

"Wait. We don't have to stop. I said I'm sorry. I'm just tired." Freya doesn't react. "You aren't a bad teacher."

Her glare could freeze lava. "If you think that offended me, I believe you underestimate my self-esteem," she says. "We're breaking because you've reached your limit today. Rest and reflect on what you have learned."

If the aching desire to melt into my bed is any indication, Freya's right. Physically and mentally, there's nothing left in the tank. "Freya, I really am grateful for all this." I waver, evaluating whether to say more. "I'm just afraid."

I can't read her face. "I know. Go, Michael."

With a nod, I turn to exit but glance at Freya from the doorway. "What's my score?"

Freya seems preoccupied with the cuff of her sleeve. "There is no score. One. Fifty. It matters little. Do not trouble yourself. Defeating Dergus is your goal."

We part on those words. Something about her demeanor bothers me. I know full-well that I sucked mega balls during sparring, but Freya wasn't acting natural. Did I hurt her feelings after all? Is she worried? Maybe I should go back? But she probably wants to be left alone. Goddammit, Mike.

Fuck it, I'm heading back.

I drag my weary body to the training room, hoping I'm not too late. Freya sits on the floor, a variety of pebbles arranged in front of her. She looks up sharply at my arrival, scooping the stones into a velvet bag. An awkward sensation of intrusion creeps over me.

"Oh… Um… If I'm interrupting something… You know, I'm just gonna go," I say, feeling foolish. This is clearly private.

"Wait," I hear Freya call as I'm halfway gone.

Sheepishly, I reenter the room. Freya's clutching the pouch tightly at her side. "I will only say this once, so please listen carefully. And then leave," she says, a foreign tremor in her voice. "You are… the most irritating man I've ever known. No one has ever vexed me as you do. I cannot decide if you're brave or a coward, selfish or caring, a moron or just rash. Milady and milord value your company. The others accept your faults and see your merits. I am not the type of person who forms bonds easily. I have so many conflicting opinions. Why do you make everything so difficult?" The sound of the pebbles crunching together punctuates the question. "Michael, I made a vow to guide you safely through this. But if you die before I can learn the sort of man you truly are, I will never forgive you."

It's a good thing Freya told me to leave before she'd said this. Because I have no response. Freya and I have always been on rocky terms at best. Be it by miscommunication or sheer stupidity on my part, she's the one Shepherd I could not find common ground with. Until the past two days, this is. Strictly speaking, she combines most of my least favorite personality traits—overbearing, prudish, sarcastic and demeaning, aloof, the entire gamut of unpleasant. She's also loyal, selfless, dedicated, fair, and intelligent. So, maybe I don't know what to think of her either. Friendship is unlikely to ever be in the cards for us, but _respect_ , that I can imagine.

We stare at each other for several long seconds. True to her wish, I leave afterwards. I return to my quarters, too sore and drained to do anything but flop onto the bed. As my mind floats within that murky realm of not-quite-conscious, I feel the flare of determination. Screw Dergus. Freya, I _will_ live, and I _will_ give you every reason to be proud.

* * *

In the following days leading up to the duel, I train with a renewed vigor. It takes Freya more time and effort to beat me each day. I try to play it smart, feinting and weaving, stalling as long as possible since I can't best her in a straight fight. The two of us hone my style, the result a jabbing hit and run that's effectively annoying. The idea is to get Dergus moving so he abandons his turtle tactics. He should still be figuring out how to deal with me when the drugs kick in. Once that happens, I just need to exploit an opening and KO him. No lethal force. Not that I want to kill him anyways. The thought alone sends my stomach into a queasy fit.

Last night, the final night before the duel, I nicked Freya on the hip. To be fair, doing so cost me the fight, and I only succeeded because she stumbled over a loose bootstrap. Still, she praised me for acting on the opportunity. So, am I ready for Dergus? Hell no. But Dergus doesn't know that. He's also less skilled than Freya. And probably susceptible to trash-talk as well. Though I'm not convinced pissing him off is in my best interest.

At least the plan is fully verified. Yesterday, Robin dropped by to let me know everything was in order. Waiting outside the Urbos Magni Dueling Grounds, though, I'm a bundle of fireworks, nerves jittering. The gear I'm equipped with only marginally offsets my trepidation. It's the same kit Chrom and I selected before we left for Regna Ferox. Except I have a helmet and breastplate now too, courtesy Khan Flavius' surplus. And then there's the lance. A real one. Deadly and about as tall as I am. My fingernails dig into the wooden shaft.

The appointed time draws nearer and nearer. Dergus appears to be going for fashionably late. Neither he or his entourage are here. Not he'd need to bring anyone along. Feroxi duels have no seconds. Or healers on standby. Though, you are entitled to be armed at all times, however you might manage it. Aside from that, though, your only aid is morale from friends. Which I cannot deny I have. Every Shepherd came to cheer me on. As Vaiva put it, "Ya ain't duelin' without Teach in your corner." Well, I lied. One Shepherd is missing. And it's not Kelda.

"She'll be here," Chrom says beside me. "Freya wouldn't miss this."

I respond with an absent nod. Maybe she doesn't want to see Dergus flay me. I don't blame her.

Virginie saunters between Chrom and I, tossing her hair. She's wearing an uncharacteristically hideous sweater, one with some kind of grotesque blob in the center. "Fret not, dearest Michael! Your cause is righteous, your noble spirit stalwart. To think a gallant man takes up arms to defend my maiden virtues… Oh, my heartbeat quickens so." She points at her sweater. "I commissioned this in your honor. See? Does it not gleam with your handsome visage?"

Not matter how hard I squint or tilt my head, that abomination still looks like a Ditto fucking a jellyfish. " _That_ is supposed to be me?"

She flutters her lashes and produces a piece of parchment bearing the same monstrosity. "Of course! I designed it myself!"

A firm hand clasps my shoulder. Sullivan leans over me to look at Virginie's sweater, guffawing as he does. "She really captured you there. That jawline is just so… realistic," he says through snickers.

Virginie rolls up the parchment and purses her lips. "Good Sullivan, do I sense a jest?" She traipses around me to press herself into him. "Or, dare I say, perhaps you covet the attention for yourself?"

The knight balks, wriggling away. "In your dreams, Ruffles. Get a grip."

"Ah, but I do dream of it. Often. Very often." She traces her finger in an idle loop on his chest. Sullivan retreats, reddening, as Virginie laughs in dainty breaths.

The amusing spectacle creates a welcome distraction from the darker thoughts whirling within my mind. If the atmosphere was somber, I'd feel more like I'm attending my own funeral rather than a duel. Have faith, Mike. They seem to. I catch Chrom eyeing me and force a smile. I'm about to put on some false bravado when Dergus and company stroll into view.

He's sporting practically an entire battalion in tow. Seems like most of Clan Talgar will be in attendance to watch Dergus fight. The man himself is decked out in a fur cape and ebony armor that simulates abdominal muscles. Warpaint covers his face, navy blue and maroon in diagonal splashes. He and his party stop a few yards across from us. Dergus bangs his fist on his shield, a deep thrum soon joined by his compatriots. The sound radiates as they pound, getting more frenzied until finally ceasing in deafening silence.

If it's supposed to be intimidating, it is.

Dergus stalks toward me, sneering. "Yous made a mistake, boy. Ain't no bitch whore worth dyin' fer. Shame. Yer head'll look good on me mantle, though."

Virginie bristles as Chrom bars her with an arm. Dergus grins, cocking his head. "Yous best control yer womenfolk. Bitches never know their place 'less ya whip 'em good. Or bend 'em over a table." He licks his lips and winks at Chrom. "That one there'd look real nice squirmin' under me."

My fist connects with his jaw before I register the action. Dergus staggers backwards holding his chin, eyes bulging. "Ya little fuckin' piece'a shit!" He draws his sword. His clansmen copy him while the Shepherds unsheathe their weapons as well. For a moment, it appears like I've instigated a full-on battle. Thankfully, a familiar voice booms over the turmoil.

"Enough!" Robin shouts, coming out of the Dueling Grounds dressed in a scarlet robe. A horned mask obscures their features, carvings of wolves, bears, and lions adorning its surface. "You stand on hallowed earth! The only blood shed today shall be in single combat."

That's some Oscar worthy shit there, Robin. The intervention has the desired effect; both sides warily lower their weapons. Dergus stares at me with undisguised malice. Why did I punch him? Who am I, Charles Bronson? You know, because I must have a… _Death Wish_.

This is not the time for jokes, Mike. This is when you piss yourself.

I try to control my emotions as we enter the Dueling Grounds. Tensions remain high, a thin veneer of civility blanketing the enmity. Robin guides us to the pit of packed dirt that must be the where the duel takes place. It's a circular area partitioned by a low stone wall from benches meant for bystanders. I haven't been inside the Arena Ferox, but this possibly an ultra-lite version. Robin instructs everyone excluding Dergus and myself to enter the stands, then walks toward an aperture in the wall hosting a large gourd-like vase and two goblets. Robin surreptitiously sends me a thumbs-up as they pour the ale. I glimpse a vial poke out their sleeve while they fill Dergus' cup.

Robin turns around holding both chalices. Meanwhile, Dergus has done nothing but glare at me the whole time, fists clenching and unclenching. "Hurry up!" he growls. "Start the duel!"

"Both participants must first drink the ceremonial ale," Robin says evenly, extending the goblets to us both. Dergus flails his arm, knocking the cup from Robin's hand, golden liquid seeping into the soil.

"Fuck that!" he roars, taking a fistful of Robin's collar. "Start. The. Duel."

I swallow. Oh, crap. This is bad. This is _really_ bad. We never counted on Dergus being totally batshit. Or me decking him in the face, but that point's moot. Robin looks from the fallen goblet to me. We both know that was the only dose.

Dergus shakes Robin, who pries his hand from their robe. "You cannot ignore the law," Robin reasons. "The rules must be observed."

It's no use. Dergus already destroyed the plan. I'm petrified. Fear courses through my veins, the icy river of inevitable doom. Dergus will kill me. Robin can't change that. But I can at least die with some dignity. "No, he's right. Begin the duel. Let us fight," I say, unable to suppress the tremor in my voice. Thanks, Robin. You did what you could.

Even beneath the mask, I can see Robin's conflicting thoughts, that spinning cog attempting to salvage the situation. I don't want to die. I really don't. However, if this world taught me anything, it's that I have to take responsibility for my decisions. No one can live your life for you. It's been real, Fire Emblem. It's been real.

Robin slowly nods, their shoulders slumped. I'm sorry. I know you wanted to protect everyone. The tactician raises their arms. "Begin," they say softly and withdrawal.

Dergus doesn't waste a moment. He shows no signs of the defensive, counter-attacking style Freya and I witnessed at Talgar Hall. Maybe in his rage he just wants to murder me as quickly as he can. In terms of raw strength, I'm a child compared to Dergus. His sword crashes down in a looping arc, and I buckle under the impact on my shield. He bypassed my lance before I could even take a stance. At this distance, my range advantage means squat. If I'm going to last more than a few seconds, I need to put space between us. As he sets up another strike, I reel, hopping to the side and sticking out my spear to safeguard my retreat. Dergus slashes air, and with a blossom of hope, I note he's slower than Freya.

"Michael!" Speak of the devil. Over Dergus' shoulder I see her beside Chrom in the stands, that velvet pouch from earlier in the week against her chest. "Remember what I said!"

Right. I don't have Freya's permission to die. I also don't have to time to think about how glad I am to see her. Or where the hell she was. Dergus glances at her and looks back to me. "That yer woman? Quite a looker. Yous won't mind if I take 'er after yer dead, will ya?"

"She's not. But she wouldn't want some disgusting pig like you," I say, gripping my lance tighter.

He chuckles. It sounds like a seal choking. "Ain't never met no woman who could resist ole Dergus."

I scowl, lip curling. "Freya would kill you before you got close enough for her to smell your shitty breath."

Dergus brandishes his sword. "I don't like yer attitude, whelp. And I'm done with talkin'." He lunges, but I jab with the lance, halting his advance. Freya's training mostly consisted of offensive moves meant to spur Dergus into expending energy. Technically, having him attack me is what I want, since it lowers his stamina. But I can only stave him off for so long without a proper defense. He'll bust through my amateurish opposition before tiring. What can I do?

The Feroxi warrior paces just beyond my spear tip. If offensive is all I know, then that's my best option. My only shot is to fight on my terms. I thrust at Dergus' head, keeping the form Freya taught me. He parries the lance, blinking in confusion. Redirecting my weapon towards his legs, I elicit another parry. He slaps away a couple more strikes before relying on his shield. It's working. Dergus is switching to defense.

I decide to press. No sleeping drug will save me. I have to try and do what that older man did against Dergus. Aggravate him and manipulate the flow of combat. Prancing in orbit around Dergus, I dart in and out, drawing a few wild blows. Steadily, he retaliates with less and less precision. Am I winning? Unreal. Eager to land a damaging blow, I aim a vicious stab into his abdomen.

Dergus smiles.

My error is catastrophic. Dergus shifts and pins my lance under his arm, bringing his shield down on the shaft and jarring it from my hands. Winning one moment, disarmed the next. No, I wasn't winning. I see that now. Dergus was biding his time, letting me get overconfident. This is his bread and butter. That's how Dergus operates. You think you're fighting well, and then you discover aren't. Deception and misdirection. Everything I wanted to avoid.

Dergus slides his sword into its scabbard and twists the lance around to point at me. "Ain't it a bitch when ya lose yer weapon? Yous was kinda a pain in the ass with this here spear. It's only fittin' I kill ya with it."

Dread fills me as the bitter taste of watery bile floods my mouth. I think back to the bandits in Southtown, when the mage split my stomach open. Will it hurt like that? Will it feel cold and empty? I'm not ready.

His grin stretches as he leisurely jaunts toward me. I step back, making myself small behind my shield, clinging to these final seconds of life. "Here!" Something hits the ground behind me. I risk a glance to investigate. A sword. And Freya near the stone wall, eyes like saucers. Scrambling, I grab the sword. Dergus snarls, marching forward.

"Michael! Balance! Grip! Awareness!"

I know what she means. Steeling what resolve I have left, I prepare to attempt the impossible. I angle my body, lift my shield, and push out my knee.

Dergus takes the bait.

The lance hurtles for my kneecap, and I swivel. The end of my sword grazes the lance shaft enough to flip the pole up. Not being as deft as Freya, I drop my shield to catch the shaft.

And then I pull with every fiber of my being.

Dergus sails into me, his pupils dilating as my blade burrows to the hilt in his chest. A reticent stillness descends upon the Dueling Grounds. My fingers loosen on the sword's leather grip, and Dergus crumples. He heaves a ragged, strangled breath, then goes still. Glassy eyes stare into an abyss no one else can see.

"The… The duel is over!" Robin declares in a tone forcibly neutral. "Michael of Ylisse claims victory!"

A lone man, wrinkled with age, comes forward from Dergus' clan, others rising behind him. He holds his sword aloft, skyward. His fellows follow suit in wave-like glittering of iron. "Valor unto you. The field of battle speaks no falsehoods. Go in peace, for you walk now with honor." Almost as one body, Clan Talgar sweeps across the Dueling Grounds, collecting Dergus' body, removing the sword from his breast, and departing in silence.

I wobble slightly before vomiting. Soon after, someone tackles me, arms enveloping my waist.

"You did it!" Liston cries, his blond head rubbing against my face. "Holy Naga's pantaloons, you did it, Mike!"

The initial nausea fades as the Shepherds swarm me. Stana squeezes my hand while Sullivan fluffs my hair. Vaiva heartily claps my back, and Virginie kisses my cheek—much to my fiery embarrassment. Kelda materializes to crush all of us against her armor. Miro nods from a distance with what _might_ be a smile. Sumner stands close by, cheering, the throng of people preventing him for doing anything more.

After a solid five minutes of somewhat painful congratulations, I break free. Robin and Chrom take the chance to greet me.

"I'm sorry, Michael," Robin says, their mask discarded. "I should have had another plan. I—"

"Stop. It doesn't matter. I'm thankful regardless. You had no idea Dergus would do that. I blame myself for punching him," I say, shaking their hand. "Robin, you did everything right."

The tactician returns the handshake, letting relief overtake their guilt. "Thank the gods you made it."

Chrom places a hand on my upper arm. "Michael… I can't tell you how happy I am. That move at the end… Where did you learn something like that? I thought… I thought for sure I had lost you." She puts her head on my chest for a brief moment. "You ever put me through that again and I'll kill you myself."

I feel a prickle of heat along my spine. "No more duels for me," I say, agreeing. Never again. "Thank Freya for everything. Without her, I'd be dead."

The princess leans back, eyes flitting to the side. "Thank her yourself," she whispers, gesturing to Freya hanging back near the wall. "I told you she'd come."

I dip my head to Chrom and Robin. Freya, I owe you my life. Twice. We lock eyes as I beeline for her. Throwing caution to the wind, I embrace Freya, not caring that she might slap or kick or judo flip me. She stiffens at my touch, but I feel her relax after a few moments. One of her hands lightly grasps my gambeson.

"Thank you, Freya," I say tenderly, my face in her hair. "I remembered."

"You did," she mumbles. "Now get off me."

I let her go. She refuses to meet my eyes. "I know we have our issues, but I hope I can change your opinion of me," I say.

"It's… possible," she admits after a long pause.

I'm not sure I've ever smiled so hard in my life.

* * *

 **Author's Note: I'm glad to be back with a timely update. First, quick announcement: please vote in the poll on my profile! "Who is best gurl?" will be followed by "Who is best boi?" I will do my best to try and get some art commissioned of the winners!**

 **This was the longest chapter yet, and hopefully it did not disappoint. Michael is growing on all fronts. While he still acts immature or brash sometimes, he's beginning to truly consider who he is and needs to be. And with this comes development in his and Freya's complicated relationship. I suppose you could call this the end of Michael's first arc and the beginning of his second. He still has a steep climb to the summit. Michael has also now killed another human being. Don't expect him to brush that off. His odd awakening is finally getting real.**

 **As a memo for the future, my goal regarding updates is to try and consistently post each Wednesday. I fully admit upfront that it's likely I'll fail, but I will endeavor to put out chapters at an acceptable rate.**

 **In other news, I have created a subreddit for Fire Emblem fanfiction. This community lacks a real forum to discuss fanfiction. FFN has a couple, but they're mostly inactive. I know from you all and the overall popularity of the fandom that there are tons of people who might be interested in having a place for us to get together. So please come and check it out! It's literally just me right now. I'm lonely, folks. Since FFN hates links, head over to reddit and put this in the search bar:**

 **r/FireEmblemFanfiction**

 **Please use the new reddit design when you go there, as the sub looks terrible on old reddit.**

 **As always, a big thank you to ThreeDollarBratwurst for looking over the chapter. Stay golden!**

 **Review responses!**

 **Guest- Yep. It does indeed live. I really do feel bad about leaving you hanging.**

 **RequiemAnon- I'm glad to see you review again! I appreciated your consistent feedback a lot. From now on I'll try to make sure you won't need to wait so long for chapters.**

 **Achiever- I'm happy you liked the change in POV. I agree it's not a good idea to do it too frequently, but mixing it up occasionally does help it stay fresh. We'll be sticking to Mike's POV for a while now.**

 **Geust- Freya is one of my personal favorite characters, and I enjoy giving her time in the spotlight.**

 **ImReallyShort- It's awesome that you like my story so much! I'm always flattered by everyone's praise. And I suppose there's no harm in dropping this info: it's not just the Shepherds who are genderbent. Michael is too! My name is actually Michelle (my dad's name _is_ Michael, though). So there it is! You now know my dark secret.**

 **Serendipitous- And I wouldn't want to be rid of you! It's highly amusing to me that I managed to update right after you started school again. Though I won't complain about my story being good stress relief (even if this chapter was somewhat tense). If you appreciated the interactions between Freya and Michael last chapter, then this must have been a treat! They're so awkward. Fun fact, back in the early days of Earthborne, I used to help Mixed Valence a bit with the story. My input was pretty minor, but he and I do know each other in that context. As a note, I think the Tellius fic you're referring to might be Spellbinding Radiance? If you're looking for another good SI, I recommend Cycle by RoseWarden. It's my favorite, though it is extremely long.**


	16. Skybound

**Chapter XVI: Skybound**

* * *

I'd like to say things returned to some semblance of normalcy after my duel with Dergus. I'd like to say I forgot all about that unsavory affair. I'd like to say driving a sword through a man's chest, even one like Dergus, didn't affect me in the slightest.

Of course, those would be lies.

I killed someone. I will never be the same again. It's easy to be melodramatic, to go through the self-important tragedy of lost innocence. That's bullshit, though. In reality, you wake up and realize you're just glad you killed them before they killed you. The revelation of knowing you'd do it all again without hesitation is the moment you change. I decided Dergus was worth less than me, that I deserved to live more. It's hard not to feel like an animal when taking a life feels _right_.

Over the last week, I've tried convincing myself I did the world a favor. Dergus was a sexist, egotistical bastard, after all. Inside, however, I know Dergus was someone's son. Brother. Friend. There are people who grieve his loss. Above all, I cannot forget his eyes. I see them when I close my own. His gray irises, their protruding surprise, the tremor of comprehension, the fear—I see the end mirrored there, the descent into a sunless place where one's final moments are inescapably alone. How is it possible to regret nothing while also wishing none of it ever happened?

It doesn't help that the Shepherds are all off training for the tournament, leaving me to stew by my lonesome. They're so busy that Chrom hasn't even given me any jobs or chores. We established early on that I would not be taking part in the competition, and now that my duel is finished, the Shepherds seem content to let me recuperate in peace. Freya still teaches me in the mornings, but she joins the others immediately after, bidding simply a cordial farewell. Aside from that, I have limited communication with the Shepherds.

Sometimes, like now, I settle for watching them spar and working on carving my new wooden sword. As usual, Vaiva and Sullivan pair up and spend just as much time bickering as they do smacking each other around. Stana and Sumner square off, the former shooting brief glances at Sullivan and his brash antics, her expression mildly exasperated. Only when Sumner bops her on the head with his lance shaft does she focus her attention on practicing. Virginie fires at a target, nearly all her arrows landing within the center ring. Miro sits in a corner reading, though several balls of fire float in orbit around him. I don't see Kelda. Not that she isn't here. I'm sure she is… somewhere. Finally, Chrom and Freya trade blows, the two of them in a league of their own. Freya possesses more skill, more experience and refinement, but Chrom surpasses her in raw talent. My fingers go lax on my knife as I track Chrom's movements. She's like a lioness, confident and poised and brimming with strength. Her brows furrow in concentration, and a faint pink tints her cheeks. And those eyes, ignited with blue flame, a passion to put anyone to shame. Chrom is so… so…

I look down, my face burning. What the hell am I thinking?

"Sis sure is amazing, isn't she?" Liston plops beside me, propping his chin on his palms. "Don't worry, Mike; your secret's safe with me."

A fluttering fills my stomach. "I-I don't have… You're crazy," I splutter.

He chuckles. "I'm just joshing you, Mike!" The prince grins. "Unless, of course, you _do_ like my sister..."

I scoff, turning away. "Yeah, right. Chrom is our leader. And Freya would kill me anyways."

"Y'know, Mike," Liston says in a lofty tone. "Marriage between commoners and royalty isn't forbidden in Ylisse."

"You're impossible." I sigh, pointing a finger at Chrom. "Does she look like someone who would fall for a guy like me? Hypothetically speaking."

Liston shrugs. "Chrom's never had much time for boys. Doesn't stop all the suitors, though… Doncha think you'll miss your chance if you wait, Mike?" He stares at me with innocent eyes that are anything but.

"Stop it," I say, glaring. "Shouldn't you be doing something useful? Not teasing me about pointless crap?

"Boo… Buzzkill." His face morphs, becoming somber. "I thought you might need some cheering up. You've been keeping to yourself, Mike."

I scowl. "Your idea of 'cheering up' is pestering me?"

"Well," he begins, "I thought you might wanna talk."

This sounds suspiciously like a roundabout segue into a therapy session. "About what? I'm fine, Liston."

He gives me a small smile. "You don't need to lie to me, Mike," he says quietly. "I know it isn't easy… The duel…"

"What do you know?" I snap, red emotion boiling up from hidden depths. "You're just a healer. All you do is wave that staff around."

Liston recoils, his hands balling on his knees. "I am just a healer, you're right," he says. "But that means I know some wounds can't be healed with a staff." His eyes flicker down. "They told me my mom was a healer, too. That she was kind and helped everyone she could. Like Emm… I want to be like them. Let me help you, Mike."

My insides twist. Liston is so pure. What a cinnamon roll. Why am I such an asshole? "I'm sorry. I'm not fine. I don't know how I feel. But I don't think there's anything you can do. I'll get over it eventually, I guess."

His shoulders sag. "If you won't talk to me, at least talk to Chrom," he insists. "She's worried, too. And… she knows what it's like."

"She has better things to do than coddle me."

"Please talk to her. Promise me." He holds out his hand, pinky finger extended. "We're your friends."

I study his hand for a second. Is it wrong to let them help me? I don't want to be an even greater burden. But maybe I'm a burden if I don't accept. Liston's puppy eyes break me in the end. "Alright. I promise. Persistent twerp," I say, curling my pinky around Liston's.

He flashes a dazzling set of white teeth, tiny dimples creating divots in his cheeks. "Thanks, Mike. It's not good to keep everything all bottled up." The serious countenance he had just before vanishes, the mercurial glint back in his sly gaze. "You might gain some love points with Chrom, too."

Shoving him slightly, I roll my eyes at Liston. "I said to stop that," I say. "You're her brother. Aren't you supposed to hate anyone who tries to flirt with her?"

"I can think of a lot worse options," he says, standing and leaning on his staff. "You've even already kissed." Reflexively, I peer at Chrom, who's shaking hands with Freya as they wrap up.

God, this kid. "That was a special circumstance. We're just friends, Liston. Go annoy Sumner about it. He needs the confidence boost."

Liston drums his fingers on the staff's orb. "I have. He just stutters and blushes. Your reaction is a lot more fun. All the denial and grumpiness. Almost a fun as Robin and the frogs..." He juts out his chin, as if wistful about something far more meaningful than pranks.

"Why don't you focus on your own love life instead of meddling with other people's?"

A great stream of air flows from his lips. "What love life?" Smells like teen angst.

I am _not_ giving romantic advice to a sixteen-year-old. "Just be patient," I say absently, hoping to divert the topic to something else.

He sits down again next to me, suddenly dejected. Please no. Don't do this to me. "But how long does it take? Emm and Chrom barely let me do anything. I only just got to join the Shepherds. Girls don't notice me."

Why? Why is this happening? "Er, hang in there," I offer, subtly inching away. If I can just slip away and cite some passable excuse...

"Sullivan has a fan club!" Liston throws his arms up, totally ignoring me. "A fan club! I should learn to use an axe. That's cool, right? What do girls like? I'm princely enough, aren't I? You know, right, Mike? I can't ask my sisters about this… And Marius just tells me that I'm perfect already… No way am I asking Freya either." He shudders.

I rub my eyes, cursing this turn of events. And I thought Lissa was a handful. "Listen. If you have to change who you are, then it's not worth it. You're young. Don't stress about this stuff… There are plenty of girls who would like you." No one should ever hire me as a youth counselor. Didn't Liston come here to comfort me, anyways?

"But Mike," he whines, "how do I make myself more appealing?"

Do I look like the right guy for that question? Freya kicks my ass everyday. "I already said you don't need to change. Just be yourself," I say wearily. "Liston, trust me on this. You're not the type of person who needs to reinvent himself. I would know."

Liston stares, lower lip puffed out. "Being the youngest in the family really sucks." He fiddles with his vest and pulls at the sleeves of his doublet. "Emm and Chrom are a lot to live up to. And I never knew my parents..."

It hits me that Liston has lived his whole life without a male role model. Growing up without a mother or father, no brothers either—that's rough. My dad was probably my best friend as a kid. Playing video games together, teaching me how to wall jump in _Super Metroid._ Encouraging me when I couldn't beat bosses in _The Legend of Zelda_. Hell, he even made _Dr. Mario_ seem riveting. It wasn't just video games either. I never met anyone who knew more about Middle Earth or _Star Wars_. All these interests are nerdy, sure, but he gave me support as I got older. He told me to pursue my dreams. When I lost my school's geography bee to some douchebag who's favorite pastime was bragging about his IQ, Dad taught me himself to beat him the next year. And I did. He was my hero.

Liston never had any of that. I reach out and place my hand on his upper back. "I don't know if anyone's ever told you this, but you don't need to prove anything to anybody, Liston," I say, meeting his eyes. "You have more heart than any of us. Just be the man you want to be, not the one you think you should be."

He sniffs, rolling his staff in his hands. "You're just saying that."

"I'm not. Are you flawless? No. I don't claim to be an expert on life; we both know I barely have a clue. But I do know the Liston in front of me makes everything around him brighter. The Shepherds wouldn't be the same without you. And if some girl can't see that, then that's her loss."

"Well said."

Liston and I look up to see Chrom, a sheen of sweat coating her face. Warm, needling pinpricks bubble along my chest. How much of the pep talk did she hear?

"Michael is correct, Liston," Chrom says, adopting a maternal tone. "Why, there are plenty of court ladies who'd love to be the subject of your affection."

"Ugh… Chrom, don't." Liston attempts to hide his face while bustling away, though he does throw me a glance. "Don't forget your promise!" Teenagers. How did I ever make it through those years?

Chrom watches him go, frowning. "Did I say something wrong?" she asks, brows furrowed. "I only spoke the truth."

I shake my head. "No, I think it has more to do with the fact it came from you specifically. You're his big sister and the last person he wants to hear about his lady troubles."

"I see," she says musingly, dabbing her skin with a rag. "Anyways, you made a promise with Liston?"

I would almost rather talk Liston through the woes of adolescence again than this. But a promise is a promise. "Yeah," I grumble. "I didn't have much choice in the matter."

She laughs, her hair bouncing slightly as she does. "My brother can be rather tenacious when he wants to be." Chrom crouches in front of me, wearing an expectant expression. "Well, what was it? The promise."

Taking a deep breath, I brace for the assuredly wonderful conversation ahead. "So… You might have noticed I've been a little distant since… you know." The obligatory small talk with the dentist is less awkward.

Chrom's lips tilt upwards. "I might have, yes. Go on."

"Look, I don't wanna make a big deal out of this, OK? I've just been trying to sort my feelings. I've never… killed someone before." Saying the words aloud hurts, like I'm spitting blood.

"So," Chrom ventures. "Liston made you promise to speak with me? I cannot lie that I haven't been concerned. And I apologize for not being more available." She offers her hand. "Come. Let's go for a walk."

I let her help me up, and we set off at a meandering pace. She matches me step for step as our path takes us into the gardens of Castle Ferox. Despite the inhospitable climate, the courtyard hosts a bountiful variety of flowers and trees. Yellows, oranges, and reds decorate the walkways, and an aesthetically pleasing moss fills gaps in the cobblestone. Miro explained a few days ago that the plants are kept healthy by a heating spell encasing the area. He seemed keen on unlocking its inner mechanism for purposes he chose not to clarify. At any rate, the result is a temperate paradise in the midst of a tundra. Even if it's only a miniature Eden, the effect is no less beautiful.

Chrom pauses under the shady canopy generated by a tall elm. I've been waiting for her to speak for a while, unsure of what to say myself. The princess fixes her piercing blue eyes on me. "I was seventeen when I first took a life. That was three years ago," she says quietly. "I still remember it as if it was yesterday."

Christ. No seventeen-year-old should have to go through that. I know kids are joining the Army around that age, but that shit is fucked up. Can't even order a drink at a bar. I don't reply to Chrom, sensing she'll continue regardless.

"Emm had just given me permission to form the Shepherds. Bandits and ruffians were terrorizing our villages, and something needed to be done. Ylisse doesn't have a traditional army outside the royal guard." Chrom makes a face, somewhat strained. "I began fencing lessons as a child. Falchion has been mine almost from the time I could lift it. So, naturally, I felt ready for anything."

I'm not particularly fond of the dark look clouding her features. "What then?" I prompt, mouth dry.

Chrom adjusts her weight from one foot to the other. Her palm grinds against Falchion's pommel, a tick I've noticed of Chrom's. "Back then, the Shepherds were only Freya, Sullivan, and myself. Our first mission was investigating reports of bandits coming down from the Eastern Mountains to loot mining settlements." Her nails scrape across Falchion. "It was horrible. When we arrived, little remained. They had killed all the men, and the women and children were… were..."

There's no reason for her to relive this. "You don't need to describe it. I was in Southtown, remember?" I say coaxingly.

"No. This was different. Let me finish." A simmering anger underlies her words, coupled with profound sorrow. "What they did to those people, _my_ people, was unspeakable. Seeing what girls hardly younger than myself had been reduced to… I couldn't control my rage. I slew the first brigand I saw. He was my age. And he died afraid, whimpering."

I recall the gurgling noise Dergus made as he died, that sickening rasp of failing lungs. "I'm sorry, Chrom."

"Every one of those cravens deserved their fate," she says, though her tone turns gentle. "But sometimes even when one deserves death, we are not prepared to be the arbiters of that justice."

Did Dergus deserve to die? Nothing is that black and white. "What do I do now? Chrom… it keeps replaying in my mind." Hearing the story, the thickness of her voice, I need to confide in her. "I don't understand how to feel."

She moves closer. "You keep living, Michael. That's all," Chrom says. "You won't ever forget. You wouldn't be human if you did. It gets easier to accept, though. I wish this world didn't have so much evil in it. But it does, and all we can do is try to do the right thing."

No one gives Chrom enough credit for being wise beyond her years. I guess it comes with the territory of ruling a country. Maybe it's the charisma as well. "I'm not sure I'm very good at doing the right thing."

"You're better than you think you are," she assures me. "You did what you had to. No one can fault you for that. Michael, you protected yourself."

I suppose there is no simple answer, no magic phrase that will absolve me of all negative emotion. We tend to seek out instant gratification and validation. That's why alcohol is popular, yeah? It's easier to slap a Band-Aid on something than deal with the real ramifications. Chrom is right. Keep living. Keep striving for more. I won't forget, can't bury the problem in a time capsule, but I can learn from it. I'm not OK; that's normal because one day I will be.

Chrom appraises me, her eyes tracking the thoughts written on my face. "I have an idea," she says, leaning against the elm. "You might find it intriguing."

Normally, Chrom isn't coy. And that makes me wary. "Will I like it?"

"I think so." She clears her throat as if about to give me her elevator pitch. "Freya informs me that you're making decent progress in your training. And while you got extremely lucky against Dergus, you did hold your own. As Shepherds, we deal with all sorts of dangerous situations. I'll be blunt, Michael; you need to pull your weight."

As usual, the princess doesn't waste time on tact. It's true; a couple wooden swords and nearly dying in a duel is not an achievement. I'm here because Chrom believes in me, more than I have any right to. Whatever she wants, I'll do my best to comply. "What do you have in mind?"

"When we fought Raimi at the Longfort, you rode a pegasus without prior knowledge," she explains, a glean akin to pride in her eyes. "Honestly, that's impressive. I know you said the pegasus flew itself, but not just anyone can do that. You are not a skilled fighter. Yet. But we can always use another pegasus rider. Thanks to Sumner, we happen to have an extra pegasus as well."

My mouth gapes, and I experience a surge of reluctance. Me? A pegasus rider? Surely, there are more worthy candidates. "What about the training equipment?" I protest.

The princess dismisses the objection with a casual shrug. "Nothing is stopping you from doing both. We all have multiple duties," she says, smiling wryly. "An airborne unit provides invaluable reconnaissance and assists in flanking the enemy. Pegasi are light, agile, and fast. They're suited to support roles. I can't think of a better niche for you, Michael."

I never saw this coming. Chrom seems set on the notion, however. I conjure a few gruesome images of falling to my death or being perforated by arrows before mustering the ability to nod. If this means serving a useful purpose in the Shepherds, I have no basis for complaints. "You really think I can be a pegasus rider?" The incredulity still taints my words.

"This is the best thing for you right now." She pats my shoulder. "I wouldn't recommend this if you weren't capable. I didn't come up with the idea out of nowhere. Even Freya agrees."

While I'm hesitant and anxious, I admit the thought of zipping through the sky on a mythical horse is pretty badass. Beats feeling confused and distressed about Dergus. "I'll do it," I say. "But how will I learn?"

Her smile widens into an ear-to-ear grin infectious enough to extort one from me. "Sumner has already agreed to teach you the basics. He isn't on the roster for the tournament, so that shouldn't be an issue either." Chrom, you sly fox. I bumbled right into your trap. "When we return to Ylisse, Phila's Air Corps will finish your training. In addition to your lessons with Freya of course."

Moments like this are when I curse my memory loss. Something about Phila and those pegasus knights drifts tauntingly away in wispy tendrils. There's a name too, starts with a C or K… The chiseling pain in my head hampers further digging. Important or not, I don't know. "You have it all figured out," I say, folding my arms. "I never pegged you for conniving, Chrom."

Chrom's laugh, unabashed and earnest, rings throughout the garden. "I merely took initiative. It appears I was not wrong to do so." Her chuckles taper into breathy sighs, and she gazes at me with abrupt intensity. "You've only been with us a little over a month. Some accuse me of trusting too quickly and wholly, but I need just a glimpse to know. Despite your mishaps, I want you to understand how much I prize your presence. I've been angry with you, yes. But I'm alive because of you. I have faith in you, Michael. So, no matter how you think of yourself, know that I see your good heart."

I'm aware of the flaming blush on my cheeks, the electric embarrassment paralyzing me. I can't contain it. Chrom is too kind. I might implode if I stay in her vicinity any longer. "I… Um… Thank you." Coherent sentences, Mike. "I should probably look for Sumner… Start my training as soon as possible." Or spontaneously combust.

Her lips part, a perturbed amusement washing over her face. "I believe he's done sparring. He heads to the stables after that," Chrom says, cocking her head. "Are you alright?" Oh, sure. It's not like you didn't just toss me off the feels cliff.

"I'm f-fine!" I blubber. "Good talk and all that. I'll catch you on the flip side, Chrom." Really? _Catch you on the flip side_? Seriously? Is this 1995? Are you wearing jorts with socks and sandals, Mike? I flee past her, head down.

I hear Chrom utter a befuddled goodbye as I escape. Hopefully, her penchant for obliviousness works in my favor. Christ, who tells someone stuff like that without batting an eye? Chrom, apparently. My legs work overtime to put distance between us, as if that passionate, fervent gaze of hers cannot follow me the farther I go. In the shadowed corners of my subconscious, I know why I'm running. It isn't just the inundating warmth of Chrom's praise or the sweet melody of her words. It's because _Chrom_ said those words. Gorgeous, lovely, brave, and noble Chrom. I swallowed these feelings for Sumner's sake. What do they matter when compared to someone who's known her much longer than I? But affection doesn't just evaporate. It grows. And when you see the subject of that affection day after day, the cloying at your heart amplifying—it hurts. How could I not fall for Chrom when she treats me as twice the man I am?

The temperature drops, and I shiver. I must have gone far enough to leave the magical barrier protecting the garden. Though Sumner is perhaps not the ideal person to take my mind off Chrom, soaring across the sky on a pegasus might. The Khan's stables are near, and it's only a few minutes until I reach them. Like everything else in Regna Ferox, the stables strike an imposing sight. Hewn from a granite bluff, they spread in a curved arc as a series of stone archways leading inside. A sculpted stampede of horses gallops across the face of the bluff, each rocky steed adorned with a shimmering ruby eye. An artificial pasture accompanies the structure, a few stallions grazing under the supervision of stablehands.

Upon entering, the pungent odor of horses and dung greets me. No matter how fancy the stable, it will always smell like shit. Aside from the stench, however, the interior boasts a handsome array of colts and fillies. Older horses occupy their own section, with studs having particularly spacious stalls. I don't see any pregnant mares, so the stablemaster must keep them sequestered elsewhere.

After several minutes of idle wandering, I spot Sumner beside a pair of stalls, each housing a white pegasus. I recognize the one I rode by her dappled neck, blotches of gray disrupting the white. Which means the other pegasus must be the one Sumner nursed along the Northroad. The pegasus I flew whinnies at my approach, and Sumner spins.

"Michael!" he calls, gesturing for me to join him. "I didn't expect to see you here today! I assume the Captain sent you?"

I rub the back of my neck. "More or less." I eye him. "So, you really agreed to teach me how to fly one of these?"

Sumner nods vigorously. "I think it's a splendid idea! You showed a natural talent back at the Longfort." He dons an innocent grin. "And it's been a while since I flew with a partner. Cornelius was so busy before we left, after all."

Should I know who Cornelius is? I really feel like I should. "Cornelius?"

"We trained together under Phila. Cornelius is… Well, he's finest pegasus knight I've ever seen. No one compares, honestly." Sumner speaks with complete admiration rather than envy.

It's futile; Cornelius sounds familiar, but I only draw a blank and a headache dwelling on him. "He seems like a good friend to you."

"The very best," he says. Sumner strokes the rescued pegasus' snout. "Now, shall I tell you the first rule of the pegasus knights?"

"Lay it on me."

His fingers brush the pegasus in soothing lines. "First, I must ask you a question." He looks about as stern as a person like Sumner can manage. "What is a pegasus to you?"

Other than a fantasy creature? "A winged horse?"

Sumner's eye twitches. "Pegasi are not horses, Michael. They only look like them. Pegasi are much more intelligent and intuitive animals. They can even sense their rider's emotions." He glides over to the other one. "A pegasus is their rider's ally, friend, and companion. They are more than mounts."

I glare at the pegasus. "So, what you mean is she knew I was about to shit myself and still dive-bombed Virginie and me into the ground?" The pegasus shakes her mane. Ornery little…

"Each pegasus has their own personality. She's spunkier than most," Sumner says warmly. "Phila lent her to me for practice. She and I get on well, but I don't have my own pegasus. Or, at least I didn't." He turns to the second pegasus.

"Then whose is she?" I point at my animal nemesis.

Sumner sighs. "No one's. Pegasi without riders usually get passed around between cadets until they graduate. She doesn't even have a name. When a rider meets their match, they name the pegasus. The partnership is for life."

How… sad. Even an obnoxious pegasus like her probably feels lonely. "Nobody claimed her? What did you name the one you saved? If that's your pegasus now."

"Esther, after the queen of legend." As in Bible Esther? Another biblical reference? What the fuck? I wish I remembered what Esther did exactly.

Maybe I can pry it out of Sumner. "Why Esther?" I ask.

Sumner smiles pensively at her. "I aided her when she was wounded. Esther in the tale saved her people when they were in need. It felt appropriate."

That's vague. I can't outright ask about a story I'm supposed to know. But I think Esther married some Persian dude? And then for some reason the Jews were going to be exterminated? There was definitely an asshole adviser in there somewhere too. For once, I'm regretting not being religious.

"You should name her." Sumner interrupts my troubled thoughts.

I blink a few times. "Huh?"

He's inclining his head towards the pegasus I flew. "You have a connection with her."

"Woah, slow down there, bud. Isn't that premature?" It's as if I'm rushing into a marriage.

"Not at all! She wouldn't have let you ride her so quickly if you didn't share an innate bond. Look at her eyes. You'll feel it," he insists.

"I'm pretty sure she just wanted to help me warn everyone," I say doubtfully. Sumner is unfazed, so I humor him. The pegasus stares back, big brown eyes boring into mine. Something stirs within me, and I can't tear my gaze away. Magic? Pegasus magic? She presses her muzzle to my forehead. Damn. I guess you do like me, you crazy beast.

"See?" Sumner says. "A rider and their pegasus always know."

Well, shit, Sumner. I can't ignore that. "What… What do I call her?"

"Her name is for you alone to decide."

For several minutes, I attempt to choose a fitting name. Most are awful, like Wanda or Pearl. Eventually, I elect to just continue the staring contest we had before, praying to discover the answer in her eyes. A name rises to the forefront, and I know it's the one. There's a familiarity I can't place.

"Fury," I say decisively. "That's her name. Fury."

The newly anointed "Fury" neighs and headbutts me, more of a soft bunt in actuality. I'll take that as approval. Sumner excitedly encroaches into my vision. "What a wonderful name!" he exclaims. "Have you read _The Ribald Tales of the Faith War_ as well, Michael? I assumed you did know how… Erm, that is… Ah, anyways, Lady Fury was an exemplary pegasus knight! Oh, but you that know already. Look at me, blathering on like an old fool." He scratches his cheek sheepishly.

I _am_ supposed to be a villager from bumfuck nowhere, aren't I? Of course, I have no idea what the hell this book is, but Fury is a character, I presume. And a pegasus knight, too? That kind of coincidence doesn't just happen. My memory loss… it's fucking with me again. Is this _Faith War_ thing another Fire Emblem game? Yesterday, I might have known. At any rate, I have to respond.

"No… There weren't any books in my village," I say. "I just heard someone talk about Fury once. You're right, by the way… I can't read, Sumner."

The lie becomes especially difficult to bear seeing his crestfallen expression. "That's a shame… I love to read. Though, I am more privileged than many. Perhaps I can school you on your letters?" He taps his heel on the ground. "There's no shame it, you know. We cannot help the circumstances of our birth."

"Why don't we deal with flying pegasi for now?" I suggest, diverting the topic. "That's a bit more pressing." Not to mention I likely enjoy books just as much as you, Sumner.

To my relief, he relents. "Then let us saddle them and begin. We'll return to your letters another day." Or not, Sumner. You _really_ don't have to.

Trips to my grandparents' farm pay off—Sumner notes his satisfaction with how well I saddle Fury, though he guides me through the special alterations required for pegasi. A rider on a pegasus sits directly between the wings, their legs fitting into the stirrups in front of the wingbone. The saddle accommodates the wings by separating along the side and refastening underneath. But due to the wings, the rider's natural position is lurched forward, almost like a competitive jockey. To protect the rider during flight, they wear a harness to avoid plummeting should they be unseated. The overall skill threshold far exceeds riding a normal horse, even while grounded.

As such, Sumner and I trot along outside in the pasture for some time so I can adjust to the anatomy of a pegasus. Fury proves obedient for the most part—she likes unfurling her wings to slap my face with the feathers. I pull on the reins when she does, but Fury nickers in what must be a pegasus' version of a mocking laugh. Nevertheless, once in the air, albeit at a low altitude canter, she reverts to all business. Sumner instructs that the key to balanced flight is sustaining a ninety degree angle with the ground, meaning the pegasus' hooves are level. Various maneuvers that involve banking or swooping disregard this rule, but a novice like myself should prioritize stability.

We're about ten feet up, and it's still astounding. Flying in an airplane is one thing; Fury is another. Speed and height don't matter. The exhilarating awe and fear of riding a gravity defying creature like Fury supersedes all else. Physiologically speaking, Fury shouldn't be able to fly. I ask Sumner how it's possible. He runs his hand on the underside of Esther's wing, stating pegasi have a gland that ejects a propellant of some kind that isn't fully researched. All I do is marvel at Fury. No animal on Earth, past or present, can challenge the majesty of a pegasus.

For the next week leading up to the tournament, I develop a routine of Freya's lessons in the mornings and Sumner's in the afternoons. Chrom and I exchange words on a couple occasions during that period. Neither of us brings up my awkward departure. With Ylisse's alliance to Regna Ferox hanging overhead, Chrom's temperament dampens on the hour. We all feel the pressure but none so much as Chrom. At breakfast the day of the tournament, she doesn't eat, instead glaring into space with Falchion flat on her lap.

The Shepherds travel to the Arena Ferox as a group, Khan Flavius' retinue leading the way. From over a mile out, the roaring of the crowd within drowns even my own footsteps. Mobs of people flood the streets, the scent of beer and spiced meat heavy on the breeze. Pulsating energy infiltrates my bones, the spirit of a people defined by battle and blade and glory. Gongs blare. Dirges and war hymns vibrate the stone. Regna Ferox lusts for spectacle, for the ascendancy of East or West.

We enter the Arena and descend a staircase into the bowels of this behemoth. After a certain point, only our designated fighters—Chrom, Freya, Sullivan, Vaiva, and Robin—are allowed deeper. The tournament is a five versus five clash that goes on until one side is entirely defeated or yields. Killing opponents is permitted, though executing one who surrenders automatically forfeits the tournament.

One of Khan Flavius' men escorts the rest of us to the Khan's personal viewing area. It borders the West Khan's seating, with the thrones of each almost touching. The multi-layered tiers of regular audience members divide evenly from our location, Khan Flavius' supporters a sea of maroon and white, the West Khan's gold and black. The Khans themselves greet each other with a brisk handshake and fiery scowls. The West Khan stands roughly a head taller than Flavius, her frame robust for a woman. Dark skin complements her milky fur cape and golden armor. She's shaved her head as well and wears an eyepatch not unlike a pirate. Judging from the chants on her side, her name seems to be Basilia. Like Flavius, she looks like someone not to fuck with.

The prelude to the main event presents as a hush just before a wizened elder lifts his arms high in the center of the arena floor, its spiraling sun insignia fanning around him.

"Men and women of Regna Ferox," he booms, the baritone of his voice echoing throughout the hollow amphitheater. "Today is our most sacred of days. Today, we honor the founders of our nation, who tilled the soil and tamed the wilderness. Today, we honor our ancestors, who fought and bled for the Feroxi way of life. Today, we honor the Khans, one of whom will reign supreme as the sun sets below the western sea. Today, brothers and sisters, we fight!"

I'm forced to plug my ears at the decibel shattering cheer. "Behold, the champions!" Chrom and the others emerge from a tunnel opposite us. The West Khan's warriors do the same, coming from directly below instead. My gut knots. This is it.

Leaning over the railing, I gain a clearer view of our enemies. An austere woman with East Asian features spearheads them in V formation. Long, dark brown, almost black hair frames almond eyes. She fingers her katana.

I cannot explain it, but something is terribly wrong.

* * *

 **Author's Note: Before anything else, here's another reminder to please vote in the poll on my profile. I will try to commission some art for the winner of "best gurl." There will be more polls in the future as the cast is expanded. However, after this poll, we'll do the first "best boi" voting.**

 **Also, please check out the new FE fanfiction subbreddit at r/FireEmblemFanfiction!**

 **Alrighty. We're finally to the tournament! Next chapter will be filled with lots of action and drama! This one, however, was necessary for buildup and to introduce some more interesting developments (pegasus knight Mike anyone?). Michael can't just sit around and be a useless potato anymore. Hopefully, he doesn't fall off** **his** **pegasus and die… Oh, wait, there's a harness!**

 **A note about Mike's pegasus: Some of you may know that "Fury" is the transliteration into English from Japanese of a playable pegasus knight featured in Genealogy of the Holy War, the fourth FE game. She's a major character and the canonical wife of Lewyn. There is, however, some** **debate over her name. The most recent fan translation refers to her as "Erin," which is a shortened form of Erinys, which is the singular form of the Greek goddesses of vengeance, also know as the "Furies," which is where the Japanese name of the character comes from. The fan translation decided to give her a name like Erin because it still holds the same connotations but sounds more like a reasonable name. The Japanese katakana for her name is** **フュリー** **which romanized looks like Fyurii. That is essentially the word "Fury" in English. So, that's why I'm using this name. It's also badass. Nintendo of Japan did transliterate her name into English as "Ferry" for the trading card game, but that is actually erroneous due to** **the team not speaking English.**

 **I apologize for that ridiculously long explanation, but hopefully that made sense. As always, thank you all so much for reading my story! We surpassed 100 in favorites, follows, and reviews last chapter. I cannot express my gratitude enough. It means the world to me that you support this fic. And again, huge thanks to ThreeDollarBratwurst for betaing. These chapters are better because of you!**

 **Review responses!**

 **Yexius- Thank you for all the reviews you've given me. And I do hope Chrom's screen time here was to your liking!**

 **Geust- I appreciate all the praise. Honestly, I never thought anyone would even read this thing.**

 **Aaronperla- Indeed. Dergus is d-e-d. RIP**

 **Caellach Tiger Eye- Once again, you've left me speechless with a thorough and detailed review.** **I'm very glad this story continues to impress and deliver. The last two chapters were perhaps the most difficult to write (the Freya POV was extremely tough) in the entire story so far. It puts a smile on my face to know that I succeeded in presenting a complicated and engaging relationship between Michael and Freya. This story is about the characters, and those two chapters were meant to bring them just a little more to life. I sent you a PM a while back and hope you're well!**

 **ThreeDollarBratwusrt- Is there anything I can say that I haven't said before? You've definitely made this whole process more enjoyable than it would have been without you.**

 **Serendipitous- Happy accidents are always a welcome surprise. If my story can be one for you, then that's wonderful. I hope this chapter offered some of the character interactions you'd been craving? Of course, Kelda still hasn't had much limelight, but someday she'll get to shine.** **I have plans for all the Shepherds to have time in the sun. It made TDB and myself very happy to see you list our stories as part of your "triumvirate." And here I am still amazed people like this thing.**

 **Shizu23- It's great the chapter kept you on pins and needles! There's more to come for sure!**

 **AscendedHumanity- As is my policy, I can neither confirm or deny. :)**

 **Mixed Valence- The POV change was risk I felt like I needed to take in order to achieve something that Michael's viewpoint couldn't; I'm overjoyed that it apparently worked! Freya is one of my favorite characters in this story, and writing her is a delight. Knowing she's well-received is good for my soul. Also, I'm working on reviewing Earthborne, so keep an eye out!**

 **RequiemAnon- If I'm being completely honest, Freya's words to Michael after training is my favorite scene in the entire story. I'm genuinely proud of it. And yeah, I'm a girl lol. Surprise?**

 **Rileva- Don't feel awkward! I really loved your review. Ironically, you ended up praising me for all those things in a roundabout way. Reading that this is one of your all time favorites just floors me. I'm seriously thankful for that. Never did I ever expect this story to be considered in that light. Thank you so much. And yeah, Freya is probably the most complex character in the story. I love her!**


	17. Blade of the North

**Chapter XVII: Blade of the North**

* * *

Watching sports, there's a certain passive helplessness one experiences, and somehow screaming at the TV screen or the field mitigates the feelings. It doesn't change things, but what else can be done? Any gang of drunk fat guys at a Buffalo Wild Wings will whoop and holler as if their fervor makes the players more likely to win. But when the score is tight, when their team can tie or take the lead or clench the victory, no one speaks. No one breathes. No one dares to do anything other than fix their eyes on the action, waiting for that one single moment of jubilant release—or crushing defeat.

The tournament suspends me in the time just before that moment. I'm frozen. I look on with twisted dread permeating my every thought. Auditory cocktails of cheering and booing and raucous bleating buzz all around, but I only stare. It's a white-knuckled terror, the kind in movies, and the kind when you can do nothing as your friends risk their lives.

Below my position on the balcony, Chrom and the rest of the Shepherds battle the West Khan's champions. Robin appears to have adopted a tactic of firing thunder magic from behind the line while Freya and Chrom protect the flanks with Vaiva and Sullivan holding the middle. It requires Freya to fight two opponents at once, but she handles it well. Mounts are not allowed in the tournament, and even still Freya's lance-work keeps them at bay. I've seen her fight before, but somehow after all our training sessions, I forgot what she's like on a real battlefield. The deft movements, the precise and shrewd strikes, the assuredness of a seasoned knight—all this comes together to form Freya's distinct style, an intelligent and controlling martial art that sings as much as it dominates.

Sullivan and Vaiva complement each other between Chrom and Freya. Axe and lance work in tandem to frustrate the enemy. Where one lacks, the other compensates. They're matched up against a swordsman and a woman not unlike Vaiva herself wielding a two-handed battleaxe. The woman attempts to chop Sullivan's lance shaft in half, but Vaiva blocks the blows, freeing the crimson cavalier to protect Vaiva from retaliation by the sword-and-buckler man. A stalemate of sorts ensues, neither pair gaining an advantage. At this rate, it's a war of attrition.

However, most eyes in the Arena Ferox hungrily follow the almost isolated and otherworldly duel involving Chrom and Khan Basilia's deadliest representative. The quicksand-sinking, eerie disquiet I felt when I first saw her does not fade the longer her exchange with Chrom lasts. They trade blow for blow, parry for parry, slice for slice. The Chinese-looking (Japanese? Korean? She seems a portmanteau of each) woman responds in equal measure to whatever Chrom dishes out, leaving the princess reeling for options. Robin hurls magic over the shoulders of our fighters, bolts zinging towards all the competitors in an intricate pattern. Some strike the dark-haired myrmidon but have little to no effect. In fact, none of Robin's attacks do significant damage. An otherwise sound strategy rendered nearly moot by frankly absurd magical resilience.

Khan Flavius notices the problem as well, slamming a fist into the arm of his throne. "Dammit, Basilia! What the hell did you do? Our magic is useless out there!"

The West Khan settles into her throne, lazily flashing a smug grin. "Oh ho, got your knickers in a twist, Flavius? By my big brown arse you can bet I came prepared." She reaches within the layers of her furs, retrieving a blue vial, branches of brass crawling up its sides. "You know what this beauty is?"

"That's..." Khan Flavius grimaces, his jaw visibly tightening.

Basilia chortles, like an unfunny comedian who can't stop laughing at their own jokes. "So, you recognize it, eh?" she taunts, waggling the container. "Dew from the leaves of the Mila Tree. Cost me a fortune. But I'd say it's worth it. Little sparky down there can't do jack. Had all my fighters take some."

Bolting upright, Khan Flavius tromps over to his counterpart until their faces are nearly touching. "How did you know I had a mage this tournament? You'll do anything to win, won't you, Basilia?"

"Please, spare me the sanctimonious bullshit, Flavius. We both know you'd do the same. The Khanate is on the line. My spies made sure I was ready." She stares unflinchingly back, cocky smirk still in place.

Raimi, who I only just saw was present (she's ditched the tank armor for an off-white tunic and pants), walks behind her liege. "My Khan, perhaps it is best to let bygones be bygones. Our side is more skilled even despite this… trickery."

Khan Flavius sends a last scathing look towards Basilia before returning to his throne. Raimi says we're the better team, but the battle below swings back and forth in a dead heat, and that does nothing to assuage my engulfing consternation. During the Khans' altercation, Robin abandoned magical attacks and joined Freya. The melee is more even now, but Robin's forte clearly leans more toward spellcraft than bladework. Their slashes and thrusts miss, more of a distraction than a genuine threat. Robin seems to understand their shortcomings, though. The tactician sheds their bulky coat, improving their mobility in just the beige tunic underneath.

A gasp courses around the arena, cheers from Basilia's section trailing soon after. My heart hammers, the furious tide of blood thumping in my ears. The saliva in my mouth evaporates. I swallow, the dryness dragging along my esophagus. Vaiva lies on the ground, a gash on her stomach pumping red ichor. The swordsman Sullivan had been keeping in check stands over her, blade slick with blood. A pair of designated tournament healers haul her body away from the fray. They're out of sight in moments. Sullivan contends with both the battleaxe woman and the man who wounded Vaiva, enraged and flailing his lance recklessly.

"Gods…" I hear Stana murmur beside me. "Let her be alright… Sullivan, don't lose focus."

I turn to her, the olive-haired knight's placid and lackadaisical expression is nowhere to be found. "That was a lot of blood," I say, feeling a hitch in my chest. "They'll heal her, right?" I don't know why I'm asking. Stana doesn't know any more than I do.

She meets my eyes vacantly. "They'll do their best, Michael." Stana's fingers knead the hem of her shirt.

"The abdominal laceration appeared grievous indeed," Miro adds, robotic as ever. "Without immediate attention, the prognosis is grim. Nonetheless, there are two clerics attending… Optimism is not always foolish." I catch Miro's lips quiver almost imperceptibly.

We all trade glances, an unspoken revelation between the Shepherds stuck on the sidelines that things are dire. Basilia's champions want this victory as much as we do. Protagonists don't have a monopoly on happy endings, do they? Across the aisle from every hero is the main character of a different story.

Sumner and Liston remain quiet, their complexions a sallow pallor. Virginie rather uncouthly chews a thumbnail. Kelda, for once, is plain to see, and it's even plainer that she can barely endure the grave situation unfolding. Stana and Miro sit at my flanks, the waves of concern rank and palpable. And then there's me. Pathetic. Helpless. Afraid. Vaiva… what happened? How did someone as tough as you end up like that? Aren't we meant to win this thing, to confront Plegia and the Risen with the might of Ferox at our backs? I'm truth, I don't know. I don't know anything anymore. How does the story go? Like this? Like a glass house, pristine and transparent until a ball of toxic lead shatters the walls and rains down jagged shards? Fuck. It's not a story. You can flip to the end of one of those to know if it's worth reading. There's no skipping here, no putting down the book and choosing something nicer. I don't remember _Awakening_. And it doesn't matter, because this must be something else.

Sullivan falls next. The two Feroxis trip him up and force him to yield. They draw no blood; Sullivan's pride is the only casualty. I can't hear him over the din of the crowd, but Sullivan's body language screams loud enough as an officiate escort him off the field. Stana hangs her head at the sight, bangs concealing whatever dark emotions color her face. Though I'm hardly faring better, I gently touch her upper back. If it comforts her, Stana doesn't show it.

We're outnumbered five to three. Two Shepherds are down while not a single one of Basilia's group has withdrawn. Morale can't sink lower. A gloom percolates the atmosphere, tension and taut muscles. Basilia gloats to the fans, throwing her arms up and beckoning for them to roar. They rise to the occasion. Khan Flavius' half of the arena boos. I'm not sure if it's directed at Basilia or our losing performance. Either way, there's little joy for us.

Freya remedies that. Capitalizing on a mistake, she spears a soldier through the arm. He takes a knee, clutching the puncture. With his sword arm rendered limp, the man forfeits and hobbles towards the healers on standby. The pair who bested Vaiva and Sullivan charge Freya in retaliation. This soon proves to be another error. Freya anticipates their assault, dodging the woman's battleaxe and clotheslining the man with her lance. He quickly earns a mouthful of Freya's boot while spluttering for air. Two of Basilia's warriors out of commission.

The shift to an even match revitalizes the crowd. It revitalizes us, too. We watch with rapt attention, the building excitement when you sense a reversal in fortune, a tipping of the scales. Eyes that were downcast and sullen moments ago now shine with hope. Yes, hope. Daring to hope, to realize faith spurs us forward and catalyzes our actions—we cannot submit. Freya, you didn't give up on me when it looked like Dergus would run me through. You threw me a sword. You trusted that I could prevail. I can't aid you in the way you did me, but I _can_ show you, all of you, that I am with you.

Liston drapes himself across the rail-guard and cups his hands around his mouth. "Chrom! You can do it, sis! For Ylisse! Show them who you are!"

Heh. He beat me to it. The others join Liston at the railing, shouting encouraging words. Sumner yells a few lines that seem ripped straight from a novel, hammy delivery and all. Kelda's soft-spoken voice transforms into a throaty bellow, rich and most definitely not unheard. Virginie unleashes a flamboyant hurrah. Miro says something, but it sounds suspiciously like an observation instead of a cheer. No one cries out louder than Stana, her rally an unbound display of passion. I open my mouth to let Chrom, Freya, and Robin know that I believe in them.

But sometimes, belief is not enough.

The fighter engaging Robin catches their sword on his own, wrenching it away with his hilt. A second later, Robin eats a pommel to the side of the head, crumpling. The tactician doesn't stir, unconscious or at least equally incapacitated. Once again, Freya must battle two foes at a time while Chrom deals with the dark-haired woman. Simultaneously, we slump, our thunder dissipating, spirits deflating. God, what a nightmare. Forget about me—why do these people deserve this? What did they do wrong?

The battleaxe hefting woman drives Freya backwards, her friend moving in an arc to pinch Freya in. Freya's lance is long, but the battleaxe rivals its range and boasts devastating power. She retracts her lance to avoid having it severed, creating an opening for the other Feroxi warrior to stab at Freya's side. Fortunately, a piece of steel plate deflects the blow. But Freya can't maintain her defense forever.

"No, no, no, no," a voice behind me says. "I'm too late."

I whirl around to see the origin of the words. A lithe figure wearing a mask, shaped like a butterfly's wings, stands halfway cloaked in shadow. Marth. A rush of memories crashes into me, a deluge of pain soon after. Marth was meant to be Basilia's main champion, not this other woman. Marth, Chrom's daughter, son in this case, from the future. Real name… Lucina. Though I doubt that's his name in this world.

"You," I say, trying to shake the burning in my skull.

Marth leers at me, or at least his mask points my direction. Does he know anything about my memory loss? And why didn't he arrive in time to serve as Basilia's champion?

He gazes out over the arena floor, scowling. "Ylisse cannot forgo this alliance." It's a statement of fact, not a plea or lamentation.

By now, the rest of the Shepherds have acknowledged Marth as well, torn between his curious appearance and the battle. Only Liston has seen Marth before. The prince studies him with wide eyes.

"Marth… What are you doing here?" Liston asks slowly. "Is this about what you said in Southtown?" His face pales. "What do you know?! Chrom… Is she going to be OK?"

The time-traveling Exalt stays silent. I may know who this is, but I haven't the faintest idea about anything else. Obviously, the future is bad. So bad Marth needs to leap through time to change it. I just wish I could remember why.

"You know this person, Liston?" Sumner says.

Liston nods. "Yeah. Marth is the one who got us out of Southtown." He fixes Marth with an imploring look. "If something terrible is going to happen, please say so. I need to know Chrom will be alright."

"I…" Marth glares at his feet. "I did not arrive in time. We are at the mercy of fate."

An ominous chill sweeps past. Just what future was Marth trying to avert here? In his timeline, Basilia must defeat us. Would it be impossible to convince her to grant the alliance? Khan Flavius agreed under the pretense that we make him reigning Khan. What does Ylisse have to offer Basilia?

I turn towards the battle again. Freya is tiring. Even a master like her wears down eventually. Chrom struggles as well, the woman who shouldn't be there having inflicted several flesh wounds. However, Falchion scored some hits too, considering the oozing cuts on the woman's forearms. Still, it's Freya who's in the worse position. And if they beat her, then Chrom is finished. She'll have no recourse.

That can't happen. No way. Freya, what do I do? You have to win. You have to give Chrom a fighting chance.

One of Freya's opponents—the swordsman—cleanly slices the back of her knee. She staggers, the afflicted leg wobbling. The injury compromises her stance. It's over.

No. No, it's not. This is Freya. Someone just needs to remind her that Freya doesn't quit.

Fuck fate.

Fuck whatever shitty-ass future Marth came from.

Maybe belief sometimes isn't enough. But the great thing about believing is that it's a choice. It's a choice I'm making.

I push through the Shepherds to get to the railing. "FREYA!" My lungs flare in protest. The people around us stop their own noisemaking to stare. "IF YOU DON'T KICK THEIR ASSES I WILL NEVER FORGIVE YOU!"

Freya looks up. I know she sees me. I know she heard me.

The woman wielding the battleaxe seems even more eager to end the fight. She cocks back to swing at a limping Freya. My teacher, my mentor, my… Freya… ducks.

The axe sails over her head and connects with the man behind her, cleaving through his neck. The momentum unbalances the woman, and before she can contemplate the fact she accidentally beheaded her ally, Freya thrusts her lance up into the woman's gut. The battleaxe clatters to the arena stone, and the woman topples. Freya attempts to move to assist Chrom, but she falls prone. It's OK, Freya. You did it.

The crowd explodes. Khan Flavius straightens on his throne while Basilia stiffens on hers. Fans begin chanting Chrom's name, the taste of triumph tantalizingly close. The Shepherds huddle around me, feeding off the residual energy. Even Marth joins us, adopting a guarded pose a few feet away. This is the moment of truth.

Chrom and the elegant myrmidon cross blades, surging for the final time. Metallic clanging reverberates, punctuating their clash. As the duel intensifies, each woman vying for the last glory, the Arena Ferox quiets. It's the hush before dawn, the stillness before rain, the pause before lightning gives way to thunder.

A flash of movement, a blur. Chrom shoulders the woman, who tries to lift her katana, but Falchion glitters in its regal, iridescent splendor, the tip tucked under the woman's chin. Basilia's champion, the stunning and exotic mistress of the blade, relinquishes her sword and holds up her hands.

Eruption.

All the pent up electricity blasts out at once. The Arena Ferox trembles under the zeal of its occupants. Khan Flavius pounds his fist against his chest, howling in exuberant celebration. Dejected and infuriated, Basilia clocks the nearest attendant in the jaw. Poor bastard never sees it coming. I'm not sure how long Basilia has held the true power in Regna Ferox, but having it snatched can't be pleasant. But I don't feel sorry for her. I wish the two warriors who died fighting Freya didn't have to, yet we can't afford to waver when the stakes are so high. We need this. It's us or them.

"The future… it's being rewritten," Marth says, a bit awed. Is it? I do know without him I probably would not have called out to Freya.

I want to confront him about what the hell is going on, but I'm swallowed up in a mass of bodies. The Shepherds jump and whoop, random spectators dogpiling us as well. One man tears off his tunic and trousers, dumping a flagon of beer over himself and screeching. It's pandemonium. I pry several people from my waist, including an elderly woman trying to lasso me with her scarf. I'm ecstatic we won, but I'm not interested in learning that lady's intentions. When I free myself from the throng, Marth has vanished. Typical.

"Oi, Shepherds! Follow me!" Khan Flavius barks, his voice carrying. The new absolute sovereign of Regna Ferox practically skips past, Raimi on his heel. After the rigmarole of separating from the delirious Feroxi audience, we tag along with the Khan and his retainer. They lead us away from the grandstands and down into the area off-limits to anyone not competing. The clamor above muffles under the thick stone. In clear and calm space, reality sets in. What did this victory cost? Vaiva. Is she… There are no smiles among us.

Flickering wall sconces dimly light a hallway just wide enough for two people to walk abreast. A claustrophobic unease simmers among our party, a pressure cooker of unspoken nerves. It smothers us in sticky heat. No one voices the omnipotent concern, for that might lend it credence. Like Schrodinger's cat, Vaiva is both alive and dead in the limbo of the unknown. At the end of this narrow path, the answer awaits.

The tunnel opens to an oval room. Wooden doors dot the walls, and a vaulted entryway to the arena floor rests on the far side. A giant brazier occupies the middle of the room, casting an orange glow. Chrom, Freya, and Sullivan sit on a bench, each looking thoroughly trashed. Robin reclines in a chair nearby, cradling their head and squinting. I search the room for Vaiva, but she's not here.

Liston barrels toward Chrom, embracing his sister as she winces and feebly pats his back. Whatever garbled mess comes out Liston's mouth Chrom apparently understands, since she laughs wheezily. The prince leans back, this time saying something intelligible.

"Where's Vaiva?" Liston's urgency speaks for all of us.

Chrom gestures at one of the doors. "She's recovering. The healers treated her injury. They said she'll be fine with some sleep."

Thank God. Naga? Well, thank the healers, that's who. At any rate, murmurs of relief travel around the room. We can allow ourselves to relish the victory. Somehow, someway, everyone survived. It's nothing short of a miracle.

Khan Flavius approaches Chrom, and Liston detaches himself from her. "Princess Chrom," the Khan says, extending a hand. "You honored your side of the bargain, and I now I will honor mine. The alliance is yours. Regna Ferox stands with Ylisse."

Grasping his hand, Chrom shakes, eyes bright. "Many thanks, Khan Flavius. From myself and my people. May we weather the coming storm together."

The Khan grins in return, then gives Freya a friendly shove. "And you!" The knight frowns, wary. "You fought like a godsdamned demon! Why don't you stay here in Ferox and teach my men a thing or two?"

Freya musters her familiar professionalism. "I have sworn my life in service of the Exalted Family. No matter how generous the offer, I must refuse."

Khan Flavius blinks before laughing heartily and shoving her again. "So serious! Like I'd poach you from your liege right in front of her!" He looks at Chrom. "Keep this one around. She's a riot."

The princess tries to respond, but a boisterous shout interrupts her. "Flavius!" Basilia marches inside from the hallway. "You dog. I haven't been this upset since that cask of Valmese mead I ordered was lost at sea."

"Basilia," Khan Flavius says curtly, facing her.

They share a tumultuous look. Basilia ends it with a smirk. "Well fought, Flavius. Best tournament I've ever seen. But damn if it doesn't sting." The two of them clasp arms, the immense respect for one another obvious.

If the two Khans were any other people besides Flavius and Basilia, I don't know how the system would work. The amount of integrity demanded of them boggles the mind. Feroxi culture confuses me, but I can see how a society might value the efficiency of settling things through prowess.

Making a grandiose, spinning motion, Khan Flavius beams at each of us. "Ylisseans… My champions! Tonight, we feast! We drink! It's time you witnessed a Feroxi party!"

A creaking sounds from across the room. The door Chrom pointed to earlier nudges open, a shock of blonde hair poking through the gap. "Ain't no party goin' down without Teach." Vaiva supports herself on the doorframe, one hand pressed against her stomach.

Sullivan nearly faceplants hurrying to her. "The hell are you doing up? Get your ass back in that cot," he orders, shooing Vaiva.

She resists, batting his hands and snarling. "I didn't get stabbed for nothin'. Nobody's stoppin' me. There's a party, and the Vaiva's crashin' it."

"Ha! That's Feroxi spirit right there!" Khan Flavius chuckles and taps Raimi as he passes her. "When they're ready, take these fine people back to Castle Ferox for the celebrations. I have an adoring populace to greet!" Raimi salutes, and the Khan exits the room, humming.

Basilia snorts. "Bah! Flavius'll take any excuse to party." She eyes Chrom, a small smile on her lips. "So, it was you and your band of misfits who removed me from power. Satisfied?"

"Khan Basilia, was it?" Chrom says evenly. "I don't believe we've been properly introduced. I am Chrom, sister to Exalt Emmeryn of Ylisse. Forgive me if I am, in fact, satisfied."

"Ho, you got a pair of brass ones there, Princess." Basilia rubs the top of her bald head. "I expect no less from the woman who bested the Blade of the North."

"You mean the woman I fought in the arena? That's her title? I cannot say I disagree."

Hands on her hips, Basilia nods. "Never saw her equal until today." She glances back at the tunnel we entered from. "Speaking of her, here's a present before you all get wasted with Flavius. Stop sulking and come out, Lon'ri."

The Asian woman emerges, her expression rivaling even the sourness of Freya. She hovers a fair distance away, sharp and angular eyes darting from person to person. Up close, she's a strange sort of beauty, hostile and edgy, but also picturesque. We gather around her, exchanging pleasantries—well, offering them; Lon'ri doesn't reply. Liston, being the friendly, hormonal teenage boy he is, inches toward her, dreamy-eyed.

"It's kinda amazing sis beat you," he says, blushing slightly and pausing a couple feet from her. "You're… very graceful."

An odd feeling something was supposed to happen that didn't sneaks up on me. Chrom rolls her eyes, brushing aside Liston to no doubt save him from himself. But as she does so, Lon'ri recoils and goes rigid.

"Away, woman!" the myrmidon growls, leaving Chrom bewildered.

Basilia guffaws. "Forgot to mention that! Lon'ri has some issues with us of the fairer sex. Ironic, right? Gods help her if she encounters a mirror." She laughs a second time, drying the corner of her eye. "Sometimes, I tease her myself."

Lon'ri backs away. "Khan Basilia… please, don't," she says stiffly.

"Don't worry, Lon'ri. My teasing days are spent. Especially now that you're joining Princess Chrom."

Chrom starts in surprise. "Are you certain, Khan Basilia?"

She closes her good eye. "Aye. Regna Ferox is a friend to Ylisse. Consider this my contribution."

"And Lon'ri? What say you? I'd hate to make you uncomfortable," Chrom says kindly. "Though, you had no trouble when we fought."

Lon'ri cringes, shifting her feet. "I can suppress my… condition in battle. But I have my orders. My blade is yours," she grunts. "Outside the battlefield, however, keep your distance."

Among our group, there are a few chuckles and quizzical looks. And Robin. Gradually retreating. Could it be…?

"Robin," I say loudly, catching everyone's attention. "Why don't you say hello to Lon'ri?"

The tactician has never appeared more stupefied than they do now. "I did already," they say nervously.

My fellow Shepherds seem to understand what Lon'ri's phobia means. We can finally know the truth! Stoically, Sullivan and Sumner each grab one of Robin's arms. Our ambiguous friend writhes but to no avail. Once Robin is dropped in front of Lon'ri, the Blade of the North shrinks, repulsed.

Robin glances from side to side. "It's not… I'm not…" She sighs. "Fine. _Fine_. I might… possibly… actually… be a lady. To be fair, you all made it too much fun. But I'm a little flattered that at least one person can tell."

"What did I just witness?" Basilia asks, brow arched.

Chrom wipes her face. "It's a long, long, long story. One that is finally over."

We all stare at Robin. Does she seem any more womanly? Maybe her hair? Her chin? Her eyes? Nope. Still Robin. Whatever Lon'ri sees, I don't.

"Well, that is one pestiferous enigma of the world elucidated." Miro adjusts his glasses.

A couple moments lapse, and laughter saturates the room. Laughter at Miro's idiosyncrasy. Laughter at Robin's reveal. Laughter at this weird new Shepherd. Laughter at the absurdity of everything.

Laughter that we fucking did it.

* * *

Feroxi partying is exactly as expected: lots of booze, wrestling, and half-naked people dancing. I abstain from alcohol. My last adventure with the delightful ambrosia didn't go quite according to plan. Besides, there's something to be said for watching the antics of a bunch of shitfaced hooligans while sober. The Feroxi can _drink_. If I didn't know any better, I'd assume their diet consisted of nothing but beer and chicken… dunked in beer.

The party began in the large room, the one with the windows overlooking the courtyard, Robin and I talked in prior to my duel. Over the course of the night, it expanded into other rooms and even floors, reaching its current state. I'm still in the original room, having returned after noping out when I saw two people fornicating on top of a bearskin rug. I've lost track of most of the Shepherds, but Chrom, Liston, and Freya are within view. The siblings chat with Khan Flavius, Freya shadowing like a helicopter parent. The knight hasn't consumed a drop of alcohol, not that I'm surprised. She probably doesn't drink period. My lips dip into a frown. That woman truly doesn't know how to have fun, does she? Shit, she never even relaxes. How does she live her life wound-up so tightly? Jesus, this makes me want to drink.

"Miiiiichael," someone slurs in my ear, a sudden weight on my shoulders buckling my knees. "Buddy. Pal. Frienderoni."

I stumble and fall, taking whoever this is with me. Crawling from under her, I push a very intoxicated Vaiva away, her body slinking against the floor. I guess a near-death experience just fuels her desire to drink. But sweet lord, she reeks.

"Oof," Vaiva moans, face down. "I fell."

An astute observation. Like any good Samaritan, I haul her mostly limp form to a wall, propping her up. "Easy," I say. "Don't move."

Vaiva's unfocused eyes flit about. "I'm fiiiine!" Her head lolls into her chest.

"You are definitely not fine. You're drunk, Vaiva." Hammered into oblivion more like.

"I'm not… hic… drunk."

How much did she drink? "Sure. Sure. Just stay still."

Her head snaps back up, and she pokes my face. "Miiiiichael. Ya know what?" Vaiva sways. "Sullivan's a big… giant… wyvern turd."

"Er… what?"

"Sullivan!" She tosses her hands up, inadvertently smacking her own face. "He's always arguin' with me. Badgerin' me. Makin' fun'a ol' Teach. Calls me a knucklehead… He's the knucklehead!"

What brought this on? I mean, Sullivan did try to make Vaiva rest against her will, but... "Vaiva, since when do you care what anyone says? Your ego is enormous."

She smushes my cheeks together. "Ya don't get it! It's like he don't even see me! As a lady, I mean. Teach is beautiful! Strong! Ogre's teeth, didn't he say he wanted a woman who could keep up with him?"

Oh.

Ohhhhhhh.

The confessions of a drunken heart. "Look, right now, you need sleep. Sullivan will still be there in the morning." And hopefully you'll have forgotten this conversation entirely.

Vaiva mumbles under her breath, teetering and only partially awake. "Sullivan…." The whisper tapers into a snore.

I take back what I said about enjoying the antics of drunks. It stops being enjoyable when you change from observer to chaperon. I'm stuck with Vaiva using me as a pillow, since I can't wander off when she's in this state. It reminds me of my college days, solemnly guarding those who failed to manage their alcohol intake. A glob of drool pools on my shoulder. Excellent.

The source of Vaiva's woes traipses into sight, thankfully seeming mostly sober. Sullivan, it's your turn. This is _your_ problem. I carefully align Vaiva so she doesn't slide onto her side and head towards Sullivan.

"Hey," I say when we make eye contact, thumbing at Vaiva. "Go clean up the mess you made."

He peers around me. "What? Vaiva? What do I have to do with her being a drunken moron?" he snaps.

This dude seriously has no clue. "Just go take care of her," I say, exasperated. "She kept talking about you. Vaiva's a girl, too, you know."

Sullivan's forehead wrinkles, and he musses his hair. "I ain't blind! I know she is. But why is she bringing me up?"

I'm not cupid. I'm not about this shit. "Figure it out, man." I nudge his arm as I walk by. "Think hard. I'm sure you can guess why."

I continue on, leaving Sullivan dumbfounded. Que sera sera. They make a good pair, though. Couple of jocks always training to get stronger. Maybe love blooms when you bash each other repeatedly? I gotta say I prefer the dinner and a movie route. Far less chance of bodily harm. But whatever works.

Dealing with Vaiva's shenanigans distracted me enough that I missed Khan Flavius abscond with Chrom and Liston. Freya stands in a nook alone, glowering. Did they ditch her? She looks like a duck out of water in this environment. I meander over, Freya noticing when I'm about halfway. Her brooding aura softens a minute measure.

"Michael," she says, a greeting I'm accustomed to hearing from her.

"Freya," I return, easing into her alcove. "Not sticking to Chrom and Liston like white on rice?"

I don't know if her frown is from the idiom or the sentiment therein. "Milady instructed me to 'take the night off.' So… that is what I am attempting to do," she explains, fidgeting.

Freya might be the only person on the planet who _fidgets_ at the prospect of a break. "You suck at it," I say flatly.

"I shall consider it a compliment that I am unfamiliar with leisure." Haughty is a good word for her face at the moment.

"It's not a compliment. There's such a thing as too serious."

"There is also the more fatal distinction of not serious enough."

We glare at each other. It feels routine. I say something. Freya disagrees. Cue glaring. Rinse. Repeat. Our entire relationship is fundamentally based upon annoying the shit out of one another. So… why aren't I annoyed?

"Thank you." Her voice is more wisp than whisper.

"Come again?"

Freya picks a spot on the floor to study. "Thank you. For today. In the arena," she murmurs. "When you called my name… and said those ridiculous words… I knew I had to persevere."

I massage my neck, also picking a spot on the floor. "Well, we're even now. You did the same for me." I hesitate, risking a glance to find her glancing at me as well. "Um… Is there a verdict on the type of man I am yet?"

She doesn't answer for a long while. "Yes."

"Can I know?"

"Absolutely not."

I sigh. "Is there a reason why not?"

"None other than that I do not wish to tell you," she says in the most Freya tone imaginable.

"Well," I begin, "I'll just assume it's in my favor."

We exchange sidelong looks. "You are free to make whatever assumptions you desire."

I smile. Another span of silence. "Freya," I say. "Why were you late to my duel?"

She shuffles her feet, and chestnut hair obscures her face. "I needed to find something. Perhaps it was silly, but to me, it made a difference." One hand brushes the pouch of pebbles at her side.

"I think I understand, Freya."

"That is… good, Michael."

People dance and sing and celebrate in every direction around us. We keep our eyes forward, soaking in the scene. I don't mind at all who it is that stands beside me.

* * *

 **Author's Note: Just a quick reminder that the "best gurl" poll on my profile will close in a week. I've added Robin and Lon'ri to the list. If you haven't voted, be sure to cast a ballot! So far, Chrom is slaying the competition.**

 **And there you have it! Alliance achieved! Did you wonder if the Shepherds were going to win? Truth be told, when outlining this story, I went back and forth on the result myself. I hope this chapter was a satisfying conclusion of sorts to the Regna Ferox arc. Things are heating up for our gang, and you'll just have to stayed tuned for more. But I think we can all welcome a return to Ylisse.**

 **Also, obligatory mention of the new FE fanfiction subreddit at r/FireEmblemFanfiction.**

 **Thank you all for reading and supporting this story. Every review, follow, and favorite warms my heart and pushes me to keep writing.**

 **And, of course, a big thank you to ThreeDollarBratwurst for continuing to beta and making my story better. I need to thank Mixed Valence, author of Earthborne, this time too. He gave me an awesome shoutout in his most recent chapter, and that's just really kind. I'm sure most of you are familiar with his story, but read it if you haven't.**

 **Review responses!**

 **Haro654- You could be onto something with the memory loss.**

 **Sigmatic- I'm very glad that my story seems to have overcome some common problems with SI's!**

 **Rileva- I'm doing my best to keep the weekly updates coming! I'm not sure if every Shepherd will get the kind of treatment Chrom and Freya do, but I plan to give them all the spotlight. Most of us love Awakening for its cast, and I'd be doing these characters a disservice not to develop them. And maybe a surprised you a little with Lon'ri?**

 **Yexius- Blood was indeed spilled. Though they evaded any lasting damage. This time.**

 **Geust- You might be right about a poll for the boys. I intended to hold off on it for a while after this poll ends anyways. Sullivan and Sumner will both be expanded in the near future.**

 **ImReallyShort- Marth did show up, just not in quite the ideal way. Hope this chapter was worth the wait!**

 **Serendipitous- Disney Channel is a lot more graphic these days, huh? But yeah, pegasus rider Mike had been brewing for a bit. He does need to play his part, and I wanted to give him a role that makes sense for his character and offers something more unique than usual. Don't expect him to start slaughtering enemies by the dozens, though. OP MCs can get out. We finally have a new crew member in Lon'ri. Hope she was entertaining! Thanks for checking out the subreddit as well!**

 **RequiemAnon- I may have said this before, but M!Lucina's name departs from the pattern I've set. When we hear it, I'll give an explanation in the author's note, as it has specific reasoning. Names in general are important in this story. I tried to make them hold meaning. Like Vaike to Vaiva sounds similar but also comes from the word 'vivacious,' since Vaiva is lively. And as you saw with Fury, that name has additional meaning too.**

 **Caellach Tiger Eye- Again, your reviews are always a joy! I do hope I haven't worried you too much with the memory loss or other elements that could easily go south. I'd like to assure you right now that Michael won't ever forget his own origin. That just does't make much sense and also it's not how the mechanic at play works. On the subject of 'Cornelius,' I debated a few names, like Cordell, Corbin, Cordon, and Corwin. But I went with Cornelius because of it's similar length and the fact in canon, Cornelius is the name of Marth's father. Which is of minor importance to my Cornelius. The Jugdral series, according to Kaga himself, takes place long before the events of anything mentioned in FE1/FE11. As for 'Fury' being recognized by Sumner, it's important to remember that Sumner's knowledge comes from a book, a legendary retelling of supposedly historical events. That book might not be entirely correct in actuality. That's all I'll say. And yes, Sumner does love horses too. He's simply warning Mike not to consider pegasi and horses as the same. It might not be completely in line with Sumia and Sully's supports, but I wanted Sumner to stress that the differences matter.**


	18. Feel it in the Air Tonight

**Author's Note: There will be a longer note at the end of the chapter. Also, for the purposes of this story, Donnel's village is located in a more plot convenient location.**

* * *

 **Chapter XVIII: Feel it in the Air Tonight**

* * *

It's strange to think that I've spent more time in Regna Ferox than Ylisse, but returning brings a profound sense of relief. Trading endless snow and mountains for the verdant, rolling hills, forests, and sparkling streams of Ylisse doesn't bother me. While going anywhere in this world is like hiking through a Yosemite-caliber national park, Ylisse invites us back with a natural radiance that speaks in equal measure of staggering beauty and comfortable intimacy. Perhaps it's because I landed in Ylisse when I first arrived a month and a half ago, though it seems far longer. Or maybe it's because Chrom and Freya and Liston and all the other Shepherds are Ylissean. The reason really doesn't matter. I'm just glad to be back in Ylisse.

We left Regna Ferox the day after Khan Flavius' victory celebration, Lon'ri and a variety of Feroxi liquors and seasoned meats in tow. And, most importantly, a declaration signed by the Khan himself binding Ylisse and Ferox together in official alliance, the countries' first in two-hundred years. A factoid Chrom has espoused on multiple occasions. To say she's pleased with the outcome is an understatement. Our spirits on the whole are jovial and light, but Chrom brims with vindication. She's entitled to it. By virtue of her own merit, she won her nation crucial aid. Pride may be a sin, but sometimes it's good to sin.

It's currently our fifth day marching since we entered Ylisse. For most of the trip, I've ridden Fury. I'm already much better at neutral flying than when Sumner first started teaching me. One of the benefits of a lengthy journey is the practice. All day in the saddle—it's hard to beat that kind of experience. Pegasi do need to rest their wings, however, so about half that is regular ground travel. I've learned that Fury despises when she's not in the air, her displeasure evident through impatient whinnies and forlorn glances to the sky. And at takeoff, she accelerates beyond my comfort zone, only slowing once we've reached a height Fury deems acceptable. The pegasus lives by her own rules; if we're to get along, it shall be as equals, not master and steed.

Fortunately for our mutual sanity, Fury and I fly alongside Sumner and Esther at the moment, scouting the landscape for Risen, bandits, or Plegian agents. My hands grip the reins, queasy thoughts of those decaying monsters an unwelcome invasion. In my dreams—nightmares—I sometimes see Freya, a scarlet tide pouring from her throat, impassive and soulless Risen surrounding her. No one knows this. The scene haunts me more than Dergus. I'm stronger now. Slightly. I like to think I'm not the same person who put Freya in danger. But I still did it. I still have the memory. That one won't fade. Robin told me my self-loathing needs to stop. She's right, of course. It just niggles in the dusty crevices of my mind if I'm brave enough to never let that happen again.

Sumner and I bring our pegasi to a hover. A few hundred feet ahead lies a village, smaller than Southtown by a good margin. Square and rectangular farm plots encase dwellings little more than huts. Thick forest shields a thin dirt road snaking into the town center, which hardly qualifies as a "center" at all. I suspect most of the inhabitants sow the fields rather than operate shops. Regardless, it might be nice for the Shepherds to sleep somewhere resembling civilization for the night.

I look over at Sumner. "We should let Chrom know about this village. Maybe they'll put us up," I say, already tugging at Fury to turn around.

"It can't hurt," he replies. "Even a bed of hay indoors is better than the tents."

We head back to the main group, descending to solid ground once the Shepherds come into view. Chrom greets us, waving her hand and walking forward with Freya.

"Anything to report?" the princess asks.

I answer before Sumner can stutter himself senseless. "There's a village down the road a ways. It could be worth asking if we can stay the night."

Chrom shrugs at Freya, who seems mostly indifferent. "I don't see why not," the captain agrees. "Though, I won't be using my title to impose ourselves."

Expected of Chrom. While her manner of speech and blatantly noble upbringing set her apart from common folk, she never lazes about on the cushion of her bloodline. Liston might be more approachable, but Chrom objects to special treatment more often. In Ferox she unequivocally refused to dine with the Feroxi upper strata unless the rest of us were allowed. That she leads from among and not above is not in question.

Our party covers the relatively short distance to the village in an hour. As we draw near, the odors of wet soil, pigs, manure, and barley waft throughout the area. Liston plugs his nose, and the rest of us try to avoid sniffing. Except Vaiva. She's undaunted by the smell, which Sullivan lambastes her for as a product of her own stench being too powerful. As per usual, they fire snide comments back and forth until Stana steps in and mediates peace. God, is Sullivan a shounen protagonist? Dude's denser than the dust gathering on Miro's sense of humor.

Ignoring the grumbling between the pair, I watch as a couple villagers walk towards us on the outskirts of town. Judging from their grimy and sweat-stained attire, they've been working the land.

"Who're you lot? We don't want no trouble, ya hear," one of them says several yards away. His companion holds a pitchfork. "We ain't got no coin neither. Them bandits done took all we had."

Raiders? Is there any part of Ylisse that _isn't_ subject to bandit attacks?

Holding out her palms in a gesture of goodwill, Chrom steps forward. "Peace, friends," she says confidently. "We mean you no harm. We're simply traveling to the capital. Whoever those ruffians are, they're not us."

The villager stands in place. "Then state yer business. An' be quick about it!"

"If you are willing, we would ask for your hospitality. Warm beds and the like." Chrom pauses, frowning. "But if you've trouble with brigands, my friends and I have some skill in combat."

Before the man can respond, his partner leans in and urgently whispers something. His eyes widen, and he stiffly bows. "Oh, Naga's breeches!" he exclaims. "F-Forgive me, milady! I'm right foolish for not realizin' who y'all are!"

"You know of us?" Chrom asks with a note of surprise.

He dips his head and drops to one knee. "Right as rain, I do! Can't believe I missed it!" he says breathlessly. "Yer the Shepherds! And yer ladyship must be Princess Chrom. The Mark on your arm's clear as day!"

So, these yokels recognize us, but Raimi and apparently all of Southtown had no idea who we were? Raimi's just stupid, but are the Shepherds more well-known in certain parts of Ylisse than others? There are only a handful of Shepherds, so it makes sense that they've had to pick and choose their battles. I still don't know how large the Halidom of Ylisse is, but if I had to guess, I'd say roughly the size of the United Kingdom. That's quite a range for a small squad to patrol.

Our captain smiles reluctantly, a sheepish expression. "I should hope you do not feel obligated to comply simply because of who I am," she says.

"Nah, the Shepherds done good round these parts," the man says reverently. "It's nothing at all to let ya use our village, yer highness, 'specially if yer gonna fend off them bandits."

In spite of Chrom's sincere aversion to using her royalty to win favor, we accept the villagers' invitation. But hearing about their struggles with extortionist thugs, Chrom refuses to take advantage of the village without protecting our hosts. She promises to eliminate the bandits before we leave for the capital. According to the townspeople, the criminals last attacked two weeks ago, killing the mayor and several others in the process. Anyone who resisted met a grisly end. Even though they stole all the healthiest livestock and most of the gold, the bandits threatened that if the village could not scrounge together more by their next "visit," all would be slain.

A month ago, I regret to confess I might have been more concerned with my own survival or only interested in helping for the nominal praises and adoration that accompany good deeds. Maybe I'm still a selfish bastard, but these people don't deserve this suffering. Am I ready to fight and kill? Physically or emotionally? No. I'm not sure choosing to be ready is a luxury I have, though. When people need help, you help them. It's that simple. If you don't, then you might as well join the enemy. Do I lack courage? Probably. But I can't rectify that without confronting my fear.

The two farmers escort us into the village proper, a marginally denser cluster of houses. One of them knocks on the door to a residence with stone walls, the only one not built of primarily wood. A plump, middle-aged woman with sunken eyes wearing a grubby apron answers the door. Stress lines mar her face, and her gaze narrows as she sees the Shepherds.

"Who're these folk, Kip?" she questions. "Not trouble, I hope."

'Kip' grins and shakes his head. "No, ma'am! These are the Shepherds! That's Princess Chrom right there!"

Chrom offers a guilty-as-charged smile and waves. The woman unceremoniously bumps Kip out of the way, her otherwise taut expression brightening as she examines us. "Praise the gods! It's an honor, yer ladyship!" She attempts a clumsy curtsy. "Is it too forward to hope y'all have come to deal with the bandits?"

"Truth be told, we only sought shelter for the night, but I cannot turn a blind eye to people in need," Chrom says, that familiar virtuous resolve coloring her tone.

The woman smiles as if she hasn't done so in weeks. "Bless you." Ushering Kip off the doorstep, she motions to the interior of her house. "Please, come in, miladies and milords. My home ain't fit for fancy folk, but it's better talkin' indoors."

One at a time, we file into the building. Calling the place "humble" might be a tad generous. As far as I can tell, there are only two rooms—a main living space with a hearth, square dining table, some kind of stove, a few chairs, and a door to what must be a bedroom. Near the stove is a trapdoor, its splintery wooden surface contrasting with the ruddy, hard-packed clay floor. Chewing my cheek, I realize most places I've been in Ylisse or Regna Ferox shame this one. Of course, I also remind myself that a house like this is precisely the kind I should be acquainted with given my concocted backstory.

Our host clangs several pots around, bustling and muttering to herself while digging through cupboards near the stove. After a fair amount of loud, metallic banging, she pulls out a dusty kettle and attempts to wipe it clean with her apron, only succeeding in smearing whatever filth cakes the surface. The woman makes a strained grunt and faces us again.

"I'd thought to whip y'all up some tea, but the kettle ain't fit fer no such task," she says, eyes downcast. "Forgive me, yer worships."

Placing a placating hand on the woman's shoulder, Chrom smiles. "We didn't come for the tea anyways, my good lady. Don't trouble yourself."

"Yer too kind, yer highness."

The door I assume leads to sleeping quarters swings open, a girl perhaps Liston's age stepping into the main room. "Ma!" she shouts in the same heavy drawl all these villagers seem to possess. "What in tarnation is all that fuss yer makin'? It's like a herd of..." The girl's indignation tapers off into a meek squeak upon seeing Chrom. A fervent blush dyes her cheeks, and she flails for a few seconds before clutching a small sack over her mess of curly, chocolate hair.

There's swift intake of breath from one of our number, and I catch Liston staring, dinner plate eyes and all, at this odd girl. Liston is no stranger to googly fixations on attractive women we encounter, but this is something different. The pair of them meet each other's gazes. Farmer's market Shirley Temple grips the sack over her head tighter, the deep blush receding to a rosy glint that blends well with the smattering of freckles dotting her nose. I can tell Liston wants to speak, but his voice hitches. I exchange a few bewildered glances with my companions.

Even Chrom, in all her classic obliviousness, cannot miss what transpires between the two. Her brow creases. Her lips set. Protective embers flicker in her eyes. Not hostility, however. More like a face of anxiety, an expression that does not come naturally to a woman like Chrom.

I never believed in it, what's happening right in front of us: love at first sight. That's what it is, though. No other explanation.

The girl's mother seems to realize it too, a dawning look of horror sprawling across her features as she waddles toward her daughter. "Straighten up, girl!" she hisses. "And get that stupid sack off yer head!" The older woman snatches the offending item and tosses it into a pile of nearby clutter. Without her protective bag, the girl's wild mop flares out, cascading all about her face and shoulders. Liston lets out a truly tortured sound, the breathy rasp of a guy whose heart is leaping out of his chest.

"This is my daughter, Donna," the woman explains hastily. "Apologies again, yer graces. She ain't got no manners."

Chrom's face eases with what appears to be considerable effort. "It's fine. There's no need for formality. We are guests in your home, after all."

Nevertheless, the woman prods Donna with her foot until the girl bends into a sloppy curtsy, mud-colored dress brushing the floor. "Sorry fer yellin', yer lordlinesses," the girl mumbles, eyes trained on Liston.

An awkward lull descends until Chrom asks the woman her name as well. She introduces herself as "Bonnie," and the rest of us take turns with our own introductions. Liston stumbles through his in a manner that puts Sumner to shame. Freya observes the scene as if she's just sucked an entire lemon dry. I imagine she must be even more flustered than Chrom.

Once we've finished, Virginie leans over to whisper something in Liston's ear, causing the poor kid's head to basically morph into a giant cherry. Rather than bear the situation any longer, Liston flees, bursting out the door and throwing incomprehensible words back towards us. Donna squirms next to her mother, looking for all the world like she wants nothing more than to hide under that sack again.

The level of sheer cringe taking place at the moment is more than enough for me as well. "I'll go after him," I offer, not waiting for approval before following Liston.

I find him around the side of the house, crouched and gasping, back pressed against the stone. He cradles his staff between his knees, the orb bobbing up and down with each truncated breath. Shit. Liston's got it real bad, huh? He doesn't take notice of my presence until I lean on the wall and clear my throat.

"M-Mike!" he squeaks, scrambling to his feet. "W-What happened in there… it's not what it looks like!"

Liston, has anyone ever told you that you're a piss-poor liar? I shake my head. "And what exactly is it not supposed to look like? Because what I saw was two kids undressing each other with their eyes."

His face adopts an entirely new, previously undiscovered hue of red. Whatever tumbles out his mouth aren't words. I stare, fighting my damnedest to stay stony, until he reaches the point where he can form a sentence. "I don't… I don't understand what this is. My chest feels like it's on fire, Mike. I'm scared. I'm scared, and I want to see her again."

I'm no expert in matters of the heart. How someone can fall for a person just by looking at them is beyond me, but I can't question the veracity of Liston's feelings. I sigh. Only thing left to do is support him.

No one else has left the house yet, so it falls to me to clasp Liston's shoulder and offer my best brotherly smile. "You remember her name, right?"

Liston nods. "Donna," he breathes, a certain reverence evident.

"Well, as long as you're hiding out here, 'Donna' is going to be all you know about her." I squeeze his shoulder as his gaze flits from me to the front door. "Go back in there and follow your heart, Liston." God, I sound like a Disney movie. But it has the desired effect—Liston sets his jaw, and his hands stop quaking. The poor village girl and the softhearted prince. Definitely a Disney movie.

Newfound resolve strengthening his steps, the two of us head back towards the entrance only to be intercepted by a disgruntled Freya. Her puckered lemon expression of earlier has been replaced with one of profound consternation. I know Freya well enough at this point to recognize her stance just before an impending lecture. However, her mouth just opens and closes in guppy-like fashion. Liston frowns and pushes past her.

"Sorry Freya, I'll be going inside now," he informs her, all the determination of a man in love fueling his words.

She doesn't protest.

We stand facing one another, Freya with her immaculate posture and me with my arms folded across my chest. Freya blinks, and I feel like for the first time since she appeared that she actually sees me. I half-expect her to berate me or deliver an otherwise snide remark. Those days are perhaps gone, though.

Her lips settle into a familiar pursed and taut line. "Milord seems more collected than a few minutes past." She fixes me a glare that doesn't seem authentic. "I must presume that is your doing, Michael."

I shrug. "He's in love, I think. I don't really get it, but if he's happy, who cares? I just told him to do what he wanted."

Freya's resulting scowl is certainly authentic. "Milord is a prince of the Halidom. It is beneath his station to pursue dalliances with… with—"

"Dirty country girls?" I supply. I'm surprised by my own snark. "The heart wants what the heart wants, Freya. You can call it whatever you want, but are you gonna try and take this from him?"

"I fail to see how any of that is your concern. It is my sworn duty to protect the best interests of my lieges. Sometimes that requires protecting them from even themselves." I _really_ don't like the hard edge to her tone.

I move forward until I am nearly invading her personal space. We had been making such progress too. "I'm disappointed, Freya. I didn't think you cared about shit like birth and wealth as long as Chrom and Liston were happy. I mean, yeah, sure, he's barely spent three seconds with this girl, but it's his life."

She slumps, and my eyes widen. That's the last reaction I expected. "I am aware of milord's sense of agency, Michael."

It's unusual not to bicker or swap insults. Are we… talking? Like adults? Like mature, civilized people? Maybe I can speak with Freya in ways I previously couldn't. I think back to the tournament after party, how we stood side by side in comfortable silence. How she thanked me. How she told me she knew what kind of man I was. Fuck it. Freya is… Freya. I just have to do what feels right.

My palm finds her upper arm, if only for a brief moment. She starts but says nothing. A stark contrast with the last time I reached out to touch her. "Look, I know you're worried. And it's probably not my place to dispense advice to Liston or anyone else. But he's my friend." I chew the next words carefully before speaking. "Before the tournament he confided in me about… girl troubles. He's a teenager, Freya. And I think he's lonely. I have no idea if this is the answer, but I figure that's for Liston to discover."

Her face is a mask. She angles away from me, and I catch a downward twitch of her lips. "You are right about one thing, Michael," she says, eyeing me sideways. "It is not your place."

Goddammit. I swallow the volatile urge to retort. She's putting up a front. Vulnerability isn't Freya's cup of tea. I might have overstepped, but couldn't she just for once let something go? Am I not allowed to talk a kid through his feelings? No one else stepped up to the plate. She's probably just angry I filled a role she felt should be hers again. The more I think about it, the more I want to tell her off.

But I don't. Instead, I stow my thoughts and walk away in the direction of Fury and the other mounts.

"Wait."

Freya's studying a patch of weeds. "I apologize."

I regard her for several silent seconds. Freya is Freya. Whatever that means.

"Apology accepted."

* * *

The Shepherds spend the night in the village, Bonnie having provided us with accommodations at the town hall using her authority as de facto mayor. The last mayor had been her husband and Donna's father, leaving Bonnie the unpleasant task of leading a wounded and battered village. He apparently died a hero at least, fighting the bandit leader and protecting his child. My fists curl recalling the story. Pointless violence and evil.

Adjusting the bedding over my straw cot with more muscle than necessary, I expel a frustrated breath through my nose. Tomorrow, we set out to forested hills to locate the ruins the bandits use as a base. As the two pegasus riders, Sumner and I will scout the area and relay information so that Robin can formulate an attack strategy. It should be simple for the Shepherds, eliminating some undisciplined bandits, but according to Robin any unknown quantity is a factor that can get someone killed. Obviously, she's right. Still, my nerves won't quiet. Even with Sumner as my wingman, this is the first real mission I've had as a Shepherd, not counting my disastrous actions when Freya was injured. My friends are depending on me. Amateur hour is over. People's lives are at stake.

I don't realize how tightly I'm gripping the bed sheet until hearing my name yanks me back to reality. "Michael," the voice repeats. Chrom's furrowed brow enters my field of vision. "You look pale."

I wave a dismissive hand. "I'm fine. Just been a long day. Do you need something?" My smile feels painted on.

Chrom stares long enough that my attempted smile falters. "I came to collect you for first watch, but now I'm considering just telling you to go to sleep."

"I couldn't sleep right now even if I wanted to. Night watch is better than tossing and turning," I say and begin fastening my sword belt around my waist.

There's an awkward lack of conversation as I gear up, and I'm uncomfortably aware of Chrom watching me the whole time. "Michael, if something is bothering you, I'd like to know."

"Nothing's wrong." Hasty. Too hasty. "I mean… it doesn't matter. Who is my watch partner?"

She ignores the question. "It matters to me."

Yet again, there's no escaping Chrom and her diligent kindness. "Alright," I concede. "It's just jitters about tomorrow."

"I'd be more worried if you weren't nervous." Chrom sits down on the end of my cot, patting the space beside her. I oblige, leaving a polite distance between us. "To be honest, I still get butterflies in my stomach before a big day. It's natural, Michael. What's important is controlling that and focusing on the task at hand."

A number of "what if's" pop into my head. Dwelling on them is useless, of course. These villagers need our protection. Anxiety, fear, doubt—none of my emotions change the facts. This is a job I can't shirk or half-ass. Nerves be damned.

Chrom allows me to process what she'd said for a while before speaking again. "I believe you'll do well. Sumner tells me you and Fury have really taken to each other."

Having Chrom's vote of confidence helps. It also stacks on the pressure. I can't let her down. I can't let any of the Shepherds down. "Fury is an obnoxious horse gremlin," I quip, cracking a genuine smile. "But I wouldn't change her one bit."

Melodic, hearty laughter fills the air. A not wholly displeasing heat climbs up my spine. Chrom's eyes shine, and she's… so achingly beautiful. We could theoretically all die tomorrow. I know exactly how I feel about her.

Ocean blue eyes.

Brimming with confidence, charisma, compassion.

Flushed cheeks. Rosy. Lively.

Lips.

Glossy lips.

Mine. On hers. Both soft and rough, warm, gasping—

Gone.

My eyes fly open. Shit shit shit _shit_. Chrom is standing, rigid, looking down at me with wide eyes and a fiery blush. "M-M-Micheal! That's… Please excuse me!" She hurries away, far away, and leaves me blinking and frozen.

Oh fuck.

My first instinct is to chase after her. I don't. I've made some mistakes since coming here. A lot of mistakes. But this? What the fuck are you thinking, Mike? Oh right, you didn't think. That's the fucking problem. Liston's love at first sight debacle seems tame. _I kissed the Crown Princess of Ylisse_. It can't be undone. Even Chrom isn't dense enough not to understand what transpired. I run my hands over my face, groaning. What do I say to her? The truth, I suppose. Our friendship might still be salvageable.

Falling back on the first instinct I had, I exit the town hall, tiptoeing as to not wake any slumbering Shepherds. It's far darker in the village at night than in Urbos Magni or Ylisstol. Without a torch I can barely see anything. However, my eyes shortly adjust enough to spot a flicking flame a few dozen yards away. Trudging through the darkness, I play out scenarios in my head. None of them end well. Blowing it happens to be my specialty after all. As I approach the flame, a figure's silhouette takes form, one that does not belong to Chrom.

Illuminated in the firelight, Freya's stern face squints at my arrival. "You're late, Michael."

Late? Oh. Night watch duty. Of all the… it just had to be _her_ , didn't it? Thankful for the dim light, I try to shape my expression into something less stupid and surprised. "Uh, sorry. I got held up."

She grimaces, surveying my haphazardly attached sword belt. "You failed to bring a torch," she observes neutrally. "Though I suppose bumbling in the dark suits you." Freya holds a branch up to her own torch and passes it to me once it catches light.

"Thanks," I mumble. So Chrom isn't around, then? And said nothing to Freya it seems. Actually keeping watch was the furthest thing from my mind when I went out here. An impatient sigh escapes my lips.

"Do you have somewhere else you would rather be, Michael?" Freya asks. I don't have to see her face to know she's glowering.

Yes. You are literally the worst person to be around after what I just did. "Not at all, Freya. Not at all."

Freya chooses not to comment on my surliness. We lapse into silence, a tense kind, soaked with the unspoken, nothing like the time we spent together after the tournament. Our torches splutter and crackle. Owls hoot. The forest beyond remains shadowed and still. I shuffle my feet and shift around; Freya is statuesque.

"I was in love once."

I almost drop my torch. "What?" I know this is boring, Freya, but please no. Anything else. "That's… nice. You really don't have to—"

My objection tapers off at her raised palm. "This is not frivolous chatter. It has purpose." She clears her throat. "As I was saying, I was once in love, years ago. I am sure you find that shocking, given how you must see me."

Can't say I expected it, no. But even Freya must have desires. Impossible to imagine as that may be.

"I was little more than a girl, training at the Knight Academy. He was older than me. Two years. Capable and strong and committed. That's how I saw him. I watched from afar sometimes, even spoke on occasion. But I never confessed my feelings. He graduated and went to work in a prestigious noble house, and I have not seen him since."

Freya remains stoic as ever recalling the story. I listen and say nothing. It's uncomfortable and strange, and despite standing right next to her I feel as if I am overhearing something I shouldn't. Freya doesn't talk about herself. She's a brick wall. I simply don't know what to make of it.

"I say all this because it is one of my few regrets. Though I have little time to ponder such things these days, I know that one is only young once. You were right earlier. About milord. Prince Liston is his own man, and it is my duty to serve him. I was myopic when we last spoke. If he wishes to fall in love, then I least of all can stand in his way."

She quiets, and I sense Freya is finished. I truly don't understand her. That's OK, though. It dawns on me that getting to know her wouldn't be the worst thing in the world. "Thank you for telling me." I mean it sincerely.

Our eyes meet briefly. "I should not have to remind you that if you repeat any of what I have said tonight, I shall skewer you and discard your flayed remains along the southern coast."

I repress a laugh. "Duly noted, ma'am."

We pass what's left of our shift in much the same way we passed the night of the tournament.

* * *

Stana and Sumner relieve us some time later. Contrary to all rational thought, keeping watch with Freya did wonders to remove both my anxiety about tomorrow and the horrifying fact that I kissed Chrom.

That is, until I see the subject of my discontent waiting outside the town hall for our return.

My boots grind against the earth as I halt. Freya quirks a brow at me, and Chrom steps forward. "Freya, go on inside. I would like a word with Michael."

Suspicion clouds her features, but Freya acquiesces. "As you wish, milady." She dips her head and enters the building where the rest of the Shepherds sleep.

I give it all of ten seconds after Freya disappears before I launch into a rambling torrent of word vomit. "So, hey, listen, Chrom, that was totally not what you think. I mean, it was what you think because, you know, I did put my face on your face. Kiss. Yes, kiss, that's the word. But yeah, anyways, maybe we should just, like, move on and forget it ever happened, am I right or am I right? Besides, kissing is basically nothing. People do that as a greeting or, like, when you go over to have dinner at your mom's house. Completely normal and not weird at all in even the tiniest, slightest bit. You know, I think—"

"I am sorry I fled before, but Michael, I need you to tell me how you feel about me."

During my aimless rant, Chrom rooted herself only a couple feet from where I stand. My word waterfall runs dry, and I gulp. Shit fuck ass shit fuck goddammit. I have to come clean, don't I? No horseshit about it not mattering. No idiotic dancing around the subject for days. No romcom wishy-washy shenanigans.

I breathe. In and out. In and out. In and out. "I have romantic feelings for you."

In the light of my torch, Chrom smiles softly. But it's not a smile that reaches her eyes. It's not a smile I want her to make.

"When you… kissed me, I was more than a little surprised," she says, a hesitancy in her voice. "I think of you as a friend and companion. Romance is unknown to me. I've had suitors and proposals, but it's never amounted to anything. In truth, that was the first time a man has ever kissed me."

I don't have any right to think about how lovely the shade of red on her cheeks is.

"Running was unfair of me. So I owe you now an honest answer to your feelings. I'm sorry, Michael, but I cannot return them. I do not feel the same way about you, and I am deeply sorry if I have given you the wrong impression. It would mean a great deal to me if we could stay friends."

Rejection. I didn't really hope for better, but having it laid out plainly and succinctly hurts. I guess any rejection hurts. But Chrom is my friend, and that has value. Of course I want things to stay the same. "I would like that, Chrom."

This time her smile stretches from ear to ear. "I am so glad to hear it."

Neither of us can think of anything else to say. Chrom tucks back a lock of hair. "Well, I ought to go back inside," she says gently. "Michael, if there's anything you need, just let me know."

I barely register my nod as she departs.

I'm happy we're still friends.

It's a long, long while before the tears stop rolling down my face.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **There will not be individual review responses this time as usual. It's been while, everyone. Almost eleven months in fact. A lot of stuff has happened in the past year. I don't have much of an excuse for disappearing other than that life is hard. For those of you aware of my health issues, I imagine my absence might have literally caused you to wonder if I was still alive. Obviously, it is my pleasure to inform you all that I am healthy and well. I can't speak to how frequent my updates will be from now on, only that they will be happening. An Odd Awakening means a lot to me, and this chapter was especially difficult to write as I am sure most of you can guess. Over these past months, follows and favorites have continued to roll in despite my inactivity. It occurred to me that there are a lot of people who love this story. And I do not have it in my heart to let all of you down.**

 **Of course, I know that having Chrom outright reject Michael might anger some of you. But I believe this is best for his growth and the story. Friendship is so important, and romantic love is not the only kind of love there is. Will Mike be forever alone? Well, I think you all know the answer to that is no. 3**

 **I thank each and every one of you from the bottom of my heart for sticking around this long. It's going to be a bumpy road and massive journey, but we will get there together. You all are still the reason I write. I hope to keep it coming for a long time.**

 **With love,**

 **Syntaxis**


	19. You've Got a Friend in Me

**Chapter XIX: You've Got a Friend in Me**

* * *

Fury must know I feel like shit, because she curtails her speed and flies more cautiously than she has since Regna Ferox.

The day's mission has barely given me a moment of respite to process what happened last night. From the crack of dawn, we began preparing to deal with the bandits. Robin held off on concocting a full plan until we know more about the bandits, but that didn't stop her from divvying out tasks. Sumner and I already expected to fly recon, though every other Shepherd received instructs as well. Mostly weapon maintenance or armor inspections, standard stuff to make sure certain someones don't forget their axes. Still, I think Robin understands the importance of morale and mentality before a fight. Loafing around makes us complacent. In the Shepherds, our feet never come off the gas. We're always training, always doing something productive. It's a constantly eager and gung-ho group.

Me, though? Not so much. Chrom's rejection and the importance of this mission combine to form an unholy amalgamation of godawful that I can't shake. Of course I should be focused. Of course I need to pay attention. But… Jesus, I have to get it together. Chrom gave me a straight, honest answer. She expects me to be mature enough not to fall apart and get someone killed today. My love life, or lack thereof, can wait.

Nickering her approval, Fury speeds up to match Esther and Sumner's pace. I'm not sure how I feel about my pegasus being so attuned to my thoughts and feelings, but Fury knows as well as I do that moping right now accomplishes nothing. Stroking her mane, I decide to be thankful. Being understood, even by a creature that cannot speak, is better than suffering alone.

Beneath us, thick forest stretches out for miles. A sea of green, unbidden and wild. Looking at from up here, it's easy to see why these bandits can come and go as they please—swooping in from the wooded hills to pillage and then disappearing where not even the best trackers can find them on foot. It disgusts me to admit that the thugs know what they're doing at least. All that ends today, though. Everything else and all my trepidation can fuck right off.

Sumner shouts something I cannot decipher over the din of the wind, but looking in his direction tells me what I need to know. A clearing, not natural, scars the otherwise seamless forest. Ruins of a fort overgrown with vines and vegetation fill the area. This must be it. Banking high and away, we fly parallel to the crumbling stone structures so the bandits don't spot us. Little figures, no more than stickmen at this altitude, wander around the buildings. Based on what Bonnie and the others told us, there's no doubt that these people are the ones terrorizing the village. Sumner and I circle the encampment for a few laps to get a proper layout. It's a tough location to attack. While the bandits only number slightly more than the Shepherds, the ruins provide defensible choke points that they can use to repel any advances we make. Thankfully, figuring out how to crack them is not my job. Robin will find a way. She always does.

Exchanging a nod with Sumner, we turn our final pass into a flight back to base. Knowledge is power, as they say, and we have the advantage there now. A small bubble of pride swells in my chest as we fly. Successful scouting mission. No casualties. No unforeseen disasters. And no fucking Law of Interrupting Catastrophe.

We touch down just outside the village, where Chrom and the others ready themselves for the operation. She greets us professionally, Freya and Robin at her flanks.

"Sumner. Michael. Welcome back," Chrom says, all business. "Did you find the brigands? What are we dealing with?"

I struggle to keep my face neutral as we lock eyes. Chrom's lips droop as a fractional frown but otherwise betrays none of last night's conversation. It's better like this. We're adults. This isn't the playground, and it's not recess. Unfortunately, I hesitate too long, prompting Sumner to start stuttering through our report.

"C-C-Captain! We've l-l-located the bandits!" That'll do, Sumner. That'll do.

Sparing him further embarrassment, I pick up the slack. "The villagers were right; the bandits are occupying some ruins maybe a few miles into the forest. There aren't a lot of them, probably just a handful more than us, but we don't have many attacking options."

Chrom taps Falchion's pommel. "Thank you both." She sighs and grinds her heel. "It's never easy, though, is it? Robin, I trust that you can see us through the coming battle?"

The tactician murmurs agreement, already deep in thought. She fixes me a pointed look. "Can you draw a map of the ruins? I need to see what we're up against."

A picture's worth a thousand words. I fish the whittling knife from my belt and set to work scraping lines in the dirt. My rendition of the hideout likely isn't perfect, but I remember the most important sections. When I finish Robin gestures for the knife and adds little arrows and circles of her own. She whispers under her breath while the rest of us gather around. Suddenly, Robin thrusts the knife into the ground. Sumner and I flinch.

"We can't beat them in direct assault," Robin declares, turning to Chrom. "Or rather, we can't win without a high risk of fatalities. And I will not endorse any plan that doesn't see each of us safely home."

"Well said, Robin," Chrom agrees. "But the question remains how we _do_ prevail. I take it you have some ideas on that front?"

Robin sits back, her hands folded in her lap. "Yes. It's… rather unorthodox, however."

Freya narrows her eyes. "I do hope you are not suggesting some sort of dishonorable action."

"More dishonorable than killing villagers for cows and coin? Or rigging a duel?" Robin snorts. Freya manages to pull off looking both ashamed and dignified in response. Robin only smiles. "But no. This is more just using the tools at our disposal. Chrom, would you gather the Shepherds so I can detail the plan?"

It doesn't take her long to round up everyone. We form a semicircle around Robin, giving her the floor.

She clears her throat. "Alright, for those of you who don't know, Sumner and Michael discovered the bandits and have mapped their fortifications. I'll be frank: it's not good. If we attack head on—" Robin shoots Vaiva a glance—"we will win, but not without losses. Still, we have something they don't."

Why are you looking at me, Robin? Hey, stop looking at me, Robin. Please don't tell me—

"Pegasi," she says, grinning. "If we distract them on the ground, they won't notice Sumner and Michael flying above. We can render their defenses useless with sufficient firepower from the air. A pegasus can support two riders at the cost of some speed. Miro and I will bombard them with magic, disorienting them and causing enough mayhem for the main force to break through. Once we bypass their front line, cleaning up should be straightforward. Of course, this isn't foolproof, and they can take cover from our magic. Which is why we will be using this."

Robin produces a small squashed disk from within her cloak. The oval is devoid of any adornments or runes, a small plug at the top its only distinguishing feature. "Khan Flavius entrusted me with this as a gift," she explains, sheepishly gazing at Chrom. "I apologize for not mentioning it. I was hoping to study it more before employing it in battle, but I don't want to gamble with our lives against these bandits."

Chrom waves a hand. "No apologies necessary, Robin. I know you were simply waiting until the right time. Now, don't keep us in suspense. What is it?"

"The Khan called it a 'fire mine.' Apparently, when a person steps on the cap here," she explains, pointing at the plug, "they trigger a Bolganone level magical explosion. A radius large and powerful enough to take out a squad. Miro and my magic will be to direct the enemy onto the mine, disposing most of the bandits in one fell swoop. I don't want our people caught in the blast, so it will need to be placed somewhere away from where we're fighting. In other words, inside the ruins."

Like clockwork, Freya objects. "And how, pray tell, do you expect us to place this… fire mine?" She gives Chrom a beseeching look. "Milady, I must ask you to decide against this course of action. We do not even know the true contents of this strange weapon. Furthermore, it is particularly egregious to me that Robin concealed it from us."

For once, I'm inclined to agree with Freya. Using a landmine seems dubious enough. But we have to go behind enemy lines to set it? I'm not that keen on ferrying Miro or Robin on Fury either, but it beats one of us accidentally blowing ourselves up or getting captured. Surely, the landmine is overkill?

"I will place the mine myself," Robin says, fingers digging into her palms. "No one else should have to take that risk. My only concern is getting our team home safely. I will sneak into the ruins tonight and make it out in time for us to begin the next phase."

Something doesn't jive here. Robin knows how dangerous this is. Why is she so adamant about this particular plan?

Freya opens her mouth to retort, but Chrom silences her with a shake of the head. "Peace, Freya. I can handle this." She eyes Robin carefully, gaze traveling from her clenched fists to her locked jaw. "Robin, is this truly the only way you believe we can avoid losses?"

"Yes. I would not broach the idea if I didn't feel that was true."

"And what about your life? You are in by far the most peril with this tactic." Chrom's voice stays even, though strained.

Our tactician does not hesitate. "It's a pragmatic choice. I am the most familiar with the fire mine."

This is wrong. All wrong. We can try another approach. Chrom, don't agree to this.

"Alright, Robin. We'll do as you say." The princess pivots to address the rest of us. "You all heard the plan. If Robin believes in it, so do I. Shepherds, prepare to march."

A wave of affirmation sweeps across our number. You all think this is a good idea? I watched _Band of Brothers_. Landmines are not fun and games. And Freya's right about us not knowing what it will really do. What is Robin thinking? Chrom, too, for that matter. As the Shepherds disperse to pack for our trek into the forest, I catch Freya stomping away from the scene. Beating down bile and unease, I follow her.

"Freya!" She turns when I call, meeting my gaze and promptly continuing forward. "Hey, wait! None of this feels right to me either, Freya."

I match her stride step for step, and she eventually slows. "I do not need you to placate me." Her scowl at me seems routine. "Milady has made her decision, and I can do nothing to question that."

Bullshit. "We don't always see eye to eye," I say, planting my feet. "OK, hardly ever, but my point is we're on the same page here. I don't like this at all. You don't have to be a hard-ass right now. I'm on your side."

Freya's mask-like expression falters. "Robin, mysteries aside, is a sound tactician. Her battlefield instructions are logical. She was… unusual just now."

"So you saw it as well." Freya nods. "We have to talk to Chrom and Robin and convince them to change their minds."

She expels no small amount of air from her nose. "As much as I believe this plan is pure foolishness, Robin appears zealous about pursuing it. And milady trusts Robin wholeheartedly." Among the formality, I detect bitterness.

"Then we just do nothing?" I ask, staring Freya down. "Robin could get herself killed. Who knows what will happen?"

"Perhaps that is her wish."

I blink. "What?"

Freya looks past me at Robin, who's speaking tensely with Chrom. "Have you not noticed her behavior since leaving Regna Ferox? Morose. Quiet. Something troubles her."

After some thought, I realize Freya's right. Robin sticks to the back of the party, speaking usually only when spoken to. Normally, she interacts with all of us, chatting and bantering, always scribbling things in her journals. How did I miss it? I want to use all the flying I've done with Sumner and Fury as an excuse, but I know the real answer is that I just wasn't paying attention. So much for awareness training.

"If Robin's upset then that's all the more reason to talk to her." Fresh anger rushes forth, spewing out as a jabbing finger into Freya's breastplate. "Robin is our friend. Are you going to let her self-destruct or whatever the hell she's doing?"

She swats my hand. "Robin is a fellow member of the Shepherds, appointed by milady as our tactician. She is not my friend."

Liar. Freya, you're lying. "And what about me?" I ask, taking a step. "Am I just another member of the Shepherds? You couldn't even bear my presence, but you trained me. Saved my life against Dergus. Why are you walking away from Robin?"

The knight retainer's face contorts, pained and conflicted. The way her lip wavers, I'm unsure if she wants to scream or punch me. "This conversation is over."

No, you're not getting out of this that easily. Freya is… Freya is my friend, goddammit. More than anyone on this godforsaken planet, she's been there for me. Chrom and Robin and all the others treat me with respect and consideration, yet Freya taught me how to be a better person. I'm still learning, obviously. But I owe Freya my life. More than that, I owe her my livelihood.

"It's not over," I say, low and urgent. "Robin's in pain. You're in pain. Talk to me, Freya. I… You can trust me."

Freya is a woman with walls. I watch them shatter, disintegrate into particles of dusty emotion. She's shown me her thoughts and feelings before—this is different. "Michael, I am losing the things I hold most dear," she whispers, voice thick. "Milady and milord are grown. They're moving beyond me. Robin is… Robin is no traitor. I know this. Gods, I am a prideful woman. Petty. I detest being wrong. And lately, I feel that is all I have been."

I'm grateful we're near a copse of trees, a fair distance from prying eyes and ears. Freya is strong. So strong. But she's just a person. A person who doesn't allow herself to have friends or confidants, a person who keeps everything bottled inside. I don't know why I'm the one who she reveals these things to. It's not worth wondering about right now. I have to be her friend.

"I don't think you're losing them, Freya," I begin, wringing my hands. "Chrom and Liston love you. Everyone here respects you. I've fucked up so many times. I do something wrong basically every day. And I've come to terms with that. Mostly. I have to work harder and make less mistakes. You're the one who changed me. You. It's complete bullshit that you feel like this. So what if you're prideful? So what if you're not always right? You're still you. That has value."

She listens silently, eyes laden with things I cannot even attempt to define. Her silence turns into mine, and we stare at our boots, the grass, the trees, the sky—all places where our gazes won't cross. I said what I wanted to say. Did it work? Fuck if I know. Freya needs someone, a peer, an equal. I'm insane to think I can fill that role. I will never hold a candle to Freya.

"To think you of all people would succeed in lifting my spirits. It beggars belief."

I look up from the fascinating saga of Beetle Climbs Pebble to see Freya peering at me. She's wearing the tiniest quirk of the lips, a Freya smile if ever there is one. I'm so surprised to see it that I don't even toss back a pithy reply. Freya straightens while I'm slack-jawed.

"At any rate, we have more important duties to attend to than… this," she says, coughing. "Forgive my earlier outburst. We are all comrades in arms. Let us be off to persuade Robin."

Just like that? Well, it's bad form to look a gift horse in the mouth. Freya's 180 is hardly unwelcome. Or, not a 180, but rather she laid off being so tsundere for five seconds. Whatever works. We have a much better chance making headway with Robin together than me alone.

She and I walk side by side to where Robin and Chrom pour over the dirt map I drew. Ignited fervor colors her eyes as she stabs the ground, clawing out rivulets representing troop movements. There's a manic air about her, like a person who's been up a week straight on nothing but energy drinks and gumption. Chrom offers hums of understanding, but the more Robin talks, the more wary Chrom seems. So all three of us know Robin's not well. Intervention time.

The tactician notes our arrival with a grunt. Scanning Robin, brand new shame washes over me. I really haven't been paying attention. She's disheveled, prized coat grimy from journeying. Her hair lacks luster, particularly evident given her white tresses. Robin isn't the obsessive groomer that Freya is, but she takes care of her appearance. Whoever this Robin is hasn't taken a bath in a while. She's a far cry from the person who told me to stop being a little bitch that night in Regna Ferox.

Freya elbows me in the ribs, jerking her head at Robin. My idea, my lead, I guess. "Robin, we need to talk to you," I say, diplomatic but blunt.

She doesn't even pause to look at us. "Can it wait? I'm still fine-tuning some details. Everything has to be perfect."

"That's actually the problem." Freya provides her version of an encouraging nod, and I continue. "This mine thing… This whole plan… Robin, are you alright? Maybe you should slow down a moment."

My words earn a blazing glare. "I can't slow down! If you don't have anything else to say, please go prepare for the mission. I'm very busy."

Chrom palms Robin's shoulder, who shakes her off instantly. "Michael is just concerned," she says. "Honestly, I'm getting worried too. I support your decision making, but you're acting strange, Robin."

"Just leave me alone!" The venom with which Robin delivers the exclamation sends Chrom reeling. A moment passes. Then another. Robin's hand flies to her mouth. "Gods, I'm so sorry! I don't know what came over me. I'm…" It dies in her throat.

"Emotionally compromised," Freya finishes flatly. Never one to mince words, are you, Freya?

Robin hangs her head. "All I need is a couple minutes to collect myself," she explains. "I'm fine."

"You're definitely not fine." I try to make eye contact with her.

Her eyes flit between the three of us until she sighs. "Outnumbered." Robin rubs her temples, frustrated groans that want to be more cascading past her lips. "I absolutely cannot incur any casualties. I'm failure if I do. _This is the only way_."

"Robin, you've never failed us," Chrom argues, bewildered. "Where is this coming from? Did something happen?"

"Are you all blind?!" Robin stands, attracting a few stares. "During Michael's duel, my plan _failed_. During the tournament, my plan _failed_. At the Longfort, I _failed_. We are alive because of luck. Sheer luck. Time and time again, I fail to foresee complications, account for our adversaries' actions, all the things a tactician must do. I woke up in a godsdamned field with no memories! This is all I have!"

Her chest heaves with effort from bellowing. There's not a Shepherd present who didn't hear her. Jesus, today is a nonstop one-way feels train. Are we all this insecure? With a jolt, I'm struck by the sobering fact that I've put all the Shepherds on a pedestal, infallible and almost superhuman. But most of them are younger than me. Some, like Liston, are still teenagers. They're brave and talented and passionate, but there's so much pressure to being a Shepherd. To being entrusted with the hopes and dreams of an entire nation. I'm an idiot. And I'm selfish. I've known for a long, long time that these people are more than characters from a game I barely remember. They're human, though. Just human.

But you know what? I've heard a lot of bullshit today. And Robin's is the worst. She's a hypocrite. Telling me I make it all about myself. Telling me I don't lean on my friends enough. This is no different from my own transgressions. Robin, you're getting a dose of your own medicine. From me.

"Hey, Robin," I say, causing her tortured gaze to fall on me. "Do me a favor and shut the fuck up."

Freya and Chrom both turn, aghast. Robin's lips flap without sound. I ignore the reactions. "It wasn't too long ago that you said those exact words to me, minus my personal touch," I say, eking out a smile at my friend. "You didn't let me degrade myself back then, and I'm not gonna let you do it to yourself now. You think it's luck that we're alive? Did luck set those Risen on fire after Southtown? Did luck defeat them on the Northroad? Robin, you're one person, and you can't do everything. You show us the path. We've won because you give us the tools to do so. You haven't failed. Your friends have simply been there to support you. Just like me. We're the Shepherds, Robin. We've both been here the same amount of time. If this is all you have, it's all I have too. And I'm _not_ letting you throw it away because you don't feel worthy. I don't know if this mine thing is your way of atonement, but you have nothing to atone for. Nothing. Robin, you are not alone."

I'm acutely aware of all the pairs of eyes watching me. But I'm not embarrassed. I will say it as many times as it takes. Because as Robin pointed out that night, it's not about me. It's about us. Who we are when we're together. The Shepherds aren't strong because Sullivan can bench press twice his weight. They aren't strong because Virginie can split one arrow with another. We're strong because no one is left behind, no one is forgotten, and no one walks alone. Stana said it best: _When one of us falls, we all fall_. And we all lift whoever falls.

Robin sways on her feet, and then with a choking croak, she begins to weep.

Slowly, the Shepherds tighten around Robin, and Liston is the first to drag her into his arms. Stana and Sumner follow, then Kelda—who is very large and very visible—and Vaiva with her crunching embrace. It's reminiscent of after my duel. Chrom manages to get a hand around Robin's, squeezing. All the Shepherds show Robin that she's wrong. She never failed her friends. I can't bring myself to join the group hug, rather content to just observe the scene of solidarity. I'm not sure I deserve these people in my life, but that's not for me to decide anymore, is it?

There's a light tap on my shoulder. "You are a far better orator than I could have expected," Freya says.

She's not really the group hug type either, is she? "All I did was tell her the truth."

"It must be strange for you to have a reason to be modest." I'd call it another classic Freya jab if not for the genuine and wide smile breaking out across her face. I've never seen her smile like that. Even when she laughed back Ferox. Freya has… a warm smile.

I fold my arms. "Are you teasing me?" I feign cowering. "Or maybe it's true. What Liston says about you only smiling before bringing down the axe?"

The scowl I know and expect returns. "You mock me."

"No more than you mock me."

We've been in this position a lot lately. Shoulders nearly brushing, drinking in the sight of our friends celebrating or consoling. Our breathing calm, satisfied, as sweetly seasoned silence coils about our persons. It's always Freya. I don't think I wanted to admit it. Or maybe I've been afraid to. But Freya is my best friend.

I wonder what I am to her.

"Freya?" I ask, forcing myself to speak to her face and not the ground. "Are we friends?"

She regards me as usual—somewhat aloof, reticent and shrewd. Freya speaks to the ground and not my face. "You are more friend than foe."

"So, that's a yes?"

Her boot nudges a pebble, rolling it along the earth. Its pale marbling glints with afternoon sunlight.

I've come to understand what the silence between us means.

"Alright, Freya. More friend than foe it is."

The pebble rests beside her foot. I resolve to collect it later.

* * *

Robin abandons the fire mine idea. She acquiesces that a thorough and chaotic peppering of magic from the sky should soften the bandits enough that we can overrun them with a ground pincer attack. Thus, here I am, carting Miro on Fury, the lithe mage holding his wide-brimmed hat so the wind doesn't catch it. Red-orange dots prick the darkness ahead, bandits bearing torches as they patrol their camp. Useless for spotting pegasi this high but perfect for target practice. Starlight gleams just bright enough to outline Sumner and Robin at my right. The moment Robin releases her first bolt of lightning will be the signal for the Shepherds to move into position.

We're almost directly above the ruins when she fires. Her strike must hit true, because a man's agonized wail starts a chain reaction of hollering and shouting that turns the night into a frenzied bedlam. Miro hurls fireballs down as volcanic rain, tome pages rustling. Sumner and I fly a looping path, providing our cargo with ample opportunity to aim and wreak havoc. The pair launches as many attacks as they can manage before the clashing of steel indicates that the rest of the Shepherds join the fray.

In the dark and up here, there's no guarantee that they wouldn't hit one of our own, so we circle back to the forest and descend through the canopy. Robin and Miro will spend the rest of the battle on foot, and Sumner intends to harry the bandits with javelins and his lance astride Esther. I haven't received a single lesson on aerial combat yet. Not that Sumner is incapable of teaching me. Chrom just believes that particular task best left to Sky Commander Phila. All this basically means my role in the fight is complete.

I don't like it. But I can't and won't argue. I'm not ready. Not against Risen and sure as hell not against human beings. That horrible squelching of the sword shearing through Dergus' chest makes my stomach roil. Cutting down another person without hesitation isn't possible for me. Even amoral savages like these bandits. I'm not sure I ever want to be ready to kill like the other Shepherds. I want to say it isn't too late to stick to carving training swords. That's a lie, though. Going back isn't an option. Not since I threw my lot in with Chrom and Freya and Robin. Not since I chose to walk with warriors.

Not since I drove a blade into another man's heart.

I'm a hindrance on the battlefield right now. That's the only reason I'm not risking my life with them tonight. But I know deep down that it won't always be that way. One day, possibly one day soon, I will be called upon to do my duty as a Shepherd so that some other nameless soldier doesn't have to die in my place. I once heard that graveyards are filled with middling swordsmen. Can I ever be more than that? With a rueful smile, I remember that the Shepherds won't allow me to stand alone. No matter what, I have the strength of every member, every friend, right within reach.

Robin, Sumner, and Miro depart, and I wish them well. My only job now is alerting the Shepherds should any enemies try to surprise them. Not that I find that likely. If everything goes smoothly, the bandits won't even be able to escape their hideout. Sounds of warfare drift through the woods, battle cries and yelps of pain from voices I don't recognize. A good sign. Besides, Liston is there to patch up any of our people.

Unless someone's heart stops.

Calm down, Mike. You're worrying. Nothing like that will happen tonight. These bandits aren't half the fighters we faced at the Longfort and not a quarter the ones in the tournament. I mutter reassurances to myself like mantras. Try as I may, the macabre thoughts pervade. From here there's no clear line of sight to the skirmish, no vision of Freya or Chrom dancing around opponents with ease. Nothing to quell the disquiet growing in my chest. My friends are in danger. Literal mortal peril. I can't quash the the anger rising from my core, rage that I lack any ability to change the outcome of this battle. Now isn't the time to feel such things, but I just can't help it.

The crunch of a twig or branch creates a crisp report in the brush opposite me. I barely have time to draw my sword before Donna stumbles from the foliage.

"What are you doing here?" I hiss, sheathing the blade. "You should be in the village, waiting with everyone else for news that the bandits are defeated."

She roots herself in a defiant pose, legs shoulder-width apart, piece of wood with a sickle tied to the end firmly in her grasp. Donna glares up at me from under the bronze pot threatening to swallow her head.

"Them bandits killed my pa!" she snarls. I don't need to be a mind reader to see the flame of vengeance in her eyes. "I ain't sittin' in the village doin' nothin' while the yellow-bellied dastard who murdered him is right here!"

I frown. Not the best situation. I can't fault the kid for wanting to avenge her father. I also can't let her run onto a battlefield in the dead of night with no armor, a makeshift spear, and a fucking pot on her head.

"Look, I get it. I do. But you'll get yourself killed."

She shoves me, and Donna isn't like she was blushing at Liston. "You don't get nothin'! If I ain't make right by my pa, then I ain't never gonna sleep at night again."

I yank the spear from her hands. "Leave it to the Shepherds, kid." I wish it didn't have to be like this, Donna.

Her eyes harden. "I'm real sorry 'bout this, Mister Shepherd."

What is she—SWEET CHRIST!

I swear one of my precious boys just rocketed into my intestines. Donna retracts her foot from between my legs as I collapse, gagging. Oh holy fuck this hurts. I crawl feebly along the ground, attempting in vain to grab Donna's ankle as she rushes past. The fetal position is about all I can do for a good while, taking measured breaths to abate the tumultuous queasiness in my gut. When I finally gather the strength to rise, Donna—and the spear I snatched—is long gone.

Wheezing, I fumble in the dark, using trees for balance. This is really, really fucking bad. Shelve the embarrassment of getting absolutely destroyed by Donna for the time being. She might have a titanic soccer player's kick, but she's a farm girl beelining for a war zone. I have to prevent her from making the same mistake I did weeks ago. She could be maimed or killed. And trust me, dealing with someone else taking that damage for you isn't any better. Every time I look at Freya, I see the jagged scar on her throat. Maybe she's forgiven me, but I haven't forgiven myself. Not completely.

The throbbing pain dulls as I hobble towards the Shepherds and the ruins. Adrenaline numbs any lingering discomfort. Donna, where the fuck are you? A glittering spark from two swords colliding alights a pair of duelists: Lon'ri and a rather burly ruffian. From what little I saw during the faint glow, Lon'ri has the upper hand. She nearly defeated Chrom—this fugly asshole isn't going to beat her. As predicted, I hear the wrenching of flesh and bone, a masculine gurgling of death. Cautiously, I approach.

"Halt!" Lon'ri growls. "State your name or I shall cut you down."

I shuffle forward, tentative, trying to judge where she is in the inky black. "It's Michael," I whisper, directing my voice at her faint silhouette.

Lon'ri's form trudges closer until she's grasping my collar. "You're not supposed to be here," she snaps. "If you cannot fight, get out of the way."

Charming. I wrest myself free. "I'm not here to dick around." Dimly, I can just see her reproachful eyes. "Donna… got past me. I think she's inside the ruins by now."

The swordswoman flicks her katana clean of blood. "The fool girl who put on that nauseating display with the prince?"

"Well, yeah, they had a moment." I shake my head. "Anyways, that's not important right now!"

Lon'ri sighs, more of an irritated snort in actuality. "You want my help."

That would be ideal, yes, you sour grape. Khan Basilia _did_ force her to join the Shepherds. She hasn't exactly meshed with the group yet. "I can't do it alone, Lon'ri. I'm gonna assume you don't want an innocent girl to die for no reason."

She stiffens. Did I touch a nerve? "I am no craven," she hisses. "Come. Let us rescue this idiot girl." Yeah, I pissed her off. Whatever. If it galvanises her into action, I don't care.

We slink along the ruin walls, moss and flakes of brittle grime latching onto my gambeson. The fever pitch of battle reverberates almost within my core. The darkness and unrelenting clamor combine as unadulterated pandemonium. It's wise to keep me out of this. Hilariously—but devoid of all humor—here I am again, weaving through combat. The only mercy is that I can see. Burning furniture and rubble bathe the bloodshed in fire. Dead bodies lie strewn, contorted in dying poses. No Shepherds. Only bandits. If we weren't searching for Donna, I might puke. At the Longfort we tried to spare lives. Risen are rotting corpses already. At Southtown, we ran too fast to watch. I've never seen so much blood and death, not up close.

Snarling, Lon'ri drags me past Sullivan engaging an axe fighter. "Stay focused!"

Shit. Donna is the priority, Mike. _Donna_. I nod at Lon'ri's derisive scowl. She leads me around a couple corners, mercilessly hacking an attacker's abdomen at one point. This part of the ruin looks to have once been an audience chamber or similarly spacious room. A dilapidated chandelier rests atop waist high grass in the middle, a cumbersome obstacle some of the bandits are using to dodge Chrom, Robin, and a dismounted Freya.

Chrom sights Lon'ri and I from the other side of the chandelier. "Michael!" she shouts, notifying Freya and Robin as well. "How many times are you going to defy orders?!"

"Forget about that! Donna ran in here! She's trying to get revenge."

The princess grimaces and waves Freya to her side. "Go with Michael and Lon'ri. We vowed to keep these villagers safe, and by Naga we shall."

Freya salutes her liege and bustles to join us. I can't read her inscrutable gaze. "Have you seen the village girl?" she asks, giving the area her own cursory glance. "I fear we may be too late if we do not act soon."

Lon'ri scoots back, a repressed reaction but obvious. "No," she answers, a little wooden.

Very enlightening, Lon'ri. I offer more. "I think Donna is after the guy who killed her dad. Not that I have any clue who that is."

"The leader of this band of riffraff," Freya says. "According to Donna's mother, the mayor died by his hand."

Right, right. I heard that secondhand after tending to Liston's teen heartthrob. "And have you seen this dude yet?"

Freya motions for us to speak on the move, couching her lance beneath her arm. "He retreated to the remains of the chapel when the fighting began. If she is smart, she will have deduced where has gone."

"If we know where their leader is hiding, why aren't any Shepherds going after him?"

Her face tells me I just asked a very stupid question. "Michael, do you think we have not tried? The way is blocked and narrow. Only now have we gained an adequate advantage to press."

Lon'ri clucks her tongue. OK. I get it. I'm a moron. Thanks. "Then what do we do? If that's true, then Donna is running right into a clusterfuck."

My mentor's lips thin. "Which is why we must make haste."

At that, the three of us graduate from jogging to sprinting. Lon'ri outpaces Freya and me effortlessly. I get the sense she's handicapping herself so we don't fall behind. Freya admittedly excels more as a distance runner, but she still forces me to haul ass not to be dead weight. The Shepherds we blitz past have the bandits reeling. As a contest, this battle is already game, set, match. The chapel is the enemy's last refuge. Even if we weren't working double time to find Donna, it wouldn't be long before we breached the chapel.

Vaiva and Stana tag team a hapless swordsman, the latter tripping him with her lance and Vaiva delivering the _coup de grace_. His death opens a path into what must be the weathered remnants of the chapel. Its steeple crumpled long before this battle, probably long before bandits occupied the ruins. Only the chapel's shell stands, decayed oak doors open off their hinges. No sign of Donna, though. Did she somehow sneak past? That seems next to impossible. They didn't just let her in, right? That's more chilling than I want to consider.

We leap over the dead man's body and turn a final corner. My heart plummets, flung down into my stomach at vicious speed.

A bloodied and bruised Donna leans on her sickle-spear. Swelling above one of her eyes surely obfuscates her vision. The pot that contained her mess of hair rests dented and discarded several yards away. Sneering at her in manner too sadistic even for Dergus is a great brute of a man wielding a cruelly curved axe. There isn't a scratch on him. Feeling my blood boil, I realize Donna's only alive because he isn't done toying with her.

"Oi, oi, oi," he spits, grinning at Donna through plaque-infested teeth. "You challenged me, ya runt! I let the boys send ya in cuz I figured you'd be fun. But yer as borin' as yer old man."

Donna screeches, taking a lopsided swing. He bats aside her strike almost playfully and hurtles a savage fist into her gut. He laughs as she slumps, grip slacking on the spear.

She's a kid, you fucking piece of shit. I'm witnessing evil. True, unfiltered evil. Risen are mindless monsters, killing without thought or will. This… _man_ is something worse. Something heinous. Fuck people who say good and evil are just constructs.

Evil smiles as it inflicts suffering. There is no ambiguity about that, no moral gray. This man is evil.

"Let her go—"

The rest never leaves my mouth. Human beings don't make the sound Lon'ri does. It's primal, primordial, a guttural roar that hearkens back to an era when we struck stones together to conjure fire and called it black magic. Molten fury. Unbridled anguish.

Lon'ri charges.

Her katana nicks the bandit leader's thigh, eliciting a low squawk. He raises his axe in defense, parrying her next blow. Lon'ri stacks slash after slash, violent thrusts and stabs. Possessing neither the skill or blistering speed of Lon'ri, the man concedes numerous oozing gashes. Whatever this is though, it's not the elegant swordplay Lon'ri exhibited at the Arena Ferox. Only murderous intent informs her attacks. And I have to give the bastard credit; he's holding his own.

More than that, this fucker is smirking. I exchange glances with Freya, and she darts forward to assist. As she does, the flat of the bandit's axe clips Lon'ri's head. The power staggers her, and with ruthless efficiency, a front kick follows. Gasping, Lon'ri careens into the advancing Freya, toppling them both. Spiteful laughter rings sickeningly full.

"I ain't done with this bitch," he says, ambling to Donna. She's struggling to stand when his boot pins her to the stone floor. "Quit yer squirmin'."

Donna's arm reaches for her spear, quaking. "Roddick," she coughs. "Yer gonna pay fer what you did to my pa."

"Ohoho? Big words for a little squirt!" He grinds his boot onto her spine.

I look at Lon'ri and Freya, tangled in a heap. They won't reorient themselves fast enough. Lon'ri seems half-conscious anyways. "Ke'ri," she mumbles, delirious. "Ke'ri!" What is that? Foreign language? In any case, she's out of it.

The only thing between Donna and an untimely demise is me. Roddick, or whatever he's called, can snap me in two. It's not a fight I have any chance in hell of winning. And honestly, I don't want to die. I really don't want to die. But it might be me or Donna. My life or hers. So many people have put their lives on the line for me since I came to this world. If I watch Donna die, I'm not worthy of someone like Freya's friendship. Most importantly, I'm not a Shepherd either.

So I draw the sword Chrom gave me in the Shepherd's armory. "Your name's Roddick, yeah?" I say, gaining his attention. "That's literally just 'rod' and 'dick.' Are you compensating for something?"

He squints and lifts his foot from Donna. "You some kinda comedian?" Roddick removes a hatchet strapped to his belt and cocks his head. "I don't like jokes."

Roddick flings the hatchet. It bites into my side, rending the gambeson and sundering tissue. I've been injured before. By magic and weapons. But the shit doesn't exactly hurt less the more it happens. I scream, clutching my flank and spluttering as blood wells around the crescent axe edge burrowed inside me. Roddick chuckles.

"Now, where was I?" he whistles as he returns to Donna. Roddick stoops to yank her into the air, but as her tiptoes brush the floor, Donna skewers the back of his hand with a hunting knife.

Cursing and cradling his bleeding puncture, Roddick drops her. "Fucking brat!"

Donna rolls to retrieve her spear, whirling it on her belly in an upward arc. The blunt end smashes Roddick's groin, putting him on his knees. Good God, Donna, master of testicular destruction. I think I can live with having been practice for that.

She rises, only just taller than a kneeling Roddick. "I said you'd pay." Donna raises her sickle-spear. "Fer the village. Fer my friends. Fer Pa."

The last thing Roddick sees in his miserable life is Donna's harvesting stance. Just before she removes his head like a stalk of corn.

Donna pants for a moment, then falls onto her back. She's avenged her father. No, it won't resurrect him or any other villager these fucks murdered, but Roddick deserved it. Rest, Donna. Rest.

Wish I could do the same. The goddamn axe sticking out of me makes that a tad difficult, though. Any slight adjustment—attempting to prop myself, bending at all, moving my shoulders—results in herniating agony. Freya gives Lon'ri's now fully unconscious person a quick check and scuttles over to me. Her hands hover above the axe.

"Until Liston arrives, the axe must stay," she says, brows knitted. "You will lose more blood if I dislodge it."

"Sounds exciting."

Freya slaps me across the cheek. "Idiot! What if the axe had hit something vital? Your lungs? Your liver? Your heart?"

I wince and glare at her. "Yeah, but it didn't. You could be nicer to the guy who just ate an axe because you and Sleeping Beauty over there were indisposed."

"Be silent! I feared… I feared that you were..." She stares at me. I nod and offer a lame smile. It's OK, Freya. You don't need to say it.

Freya doesn't leave my side even when Liston bursts into the chapel, babbling gibberish as he fusses at my wound. He tells me he's going to pull the axe out on the count of three. Blond bastard does it at one, the oldest trick in the book. Hurts like a motherfucker, of course. And I get a nice splurt of blood on the unsullied part of my gambeson. I expect to faint while being healed, but I get to enjoy every second of Liston's magic stitching together the laceration. I'm sore afterwards though mobile once more. A vertical scar to match the horizontal one.

Liston scurries to tend to Donna—especially Donna, heh—and Lon'ri, along with the myriad injuries other Shepherds accumulated. Freya leans back, supporting her body with her palms flat on the stone. Blood, gore, and God knows what else cake her face and hair. None of it her own. She narrows her eyes at me in predictable, if oddly comforting, fashion.

"Satisfied, Michael?" Freya sighs. "You appear fond of rushing to your death."

My lips settle into something between a scoff and smile. "I'm not dead yet, am I? That's gotta net me some points."

Freya's eyes bore into mine so fiercely that I balk. "Surely, you must know by now that points are detrimental?"

"Yeah, yeah." I poke her arm. "I'm glad you're safe too, Freya."

"I never said I was glad."

"You didn't have to."

As Freya obscures her expression behind her hair, I squeeze the marbled pebble inside my belt pouch.

* * *

We spend another day and night in the village, recuperating and not so begrudgingly partaking of Bonnie's minced meat pies. _This_ is what being a Shepherd is about. Seeing the faces of joy when you tell a bunch of downtrodden villagers that they're finally safe. And meat pies. Always meat pies.

When we say farewell, accepting embraces and gifts of food (mostly more meat pies), Donna barrels out from the crowd, rucksack and spear-sickle in hand. The dented pot jostles around on her head as she runs. Liston meets her halfway, steadying a visibly excited Donna.

"D-Donna!" He adjusts the pot as to see her flushed face. "What's all this?" Liston gestures at her pack and traveling outfit.

She wriggles, a bashful countenance overtaking her features. "Milordliness, I know I ain't much, but I'm real decent with livestock! So! Take me with you! Please, I gotta be a Shepherd!"

We aren't those kind of Shepherds, Donna, but I suspect she's just making a point. Bonnie raps her knuckles against her daughter's pot helmet. "Witless girl! Get back here and quit makin' a scene!"

Donna rounds on her mother, chest puffed out, resolute. "My whole life I ain't been nothin', Ma! Lemme do this! Pa's gone. But I know there's other folks out there sufferin' like us. I can do more than pickin' turnips!"

Liston turns to Chrom, and his pleading eyes say all that need be said. If they took me in, they can't turn down Donna. She's probably a lot more useful than I am. I might even pick her brain about medieval carpentry. Besides, one look at her and anyone can tell she's meant for more than plodding around some nameless village.

No one speaks as Chrom steps forward, regarding Donna and her plucky determination. "Donna, a sickle's not far from a sword. But we protect the innocent. The oppressed. Do you know what that means?"

The farmer never flinches. "I ain't good with words, yer Graceliness, but I know right from wrong. I know the world ain't all sunshine. My pa died so I could keep livin'. Not everybody's got a pa like that, though. That's why I wanna be a Shepherd."

Chrom nods, smiling, and looks past her at Bonnie. "I believe your daughter has courage and heart," Chrom says warmly. "We would be honored to have her."

Our captain lowers herself to one knee. Freya copies, and soon the rest of us comply, the entire company bowing before Donna's mother.

Murmurs of shock sweep through the villagers. Bonnie gesticulates frantically, prancing in place. "Please, please, yer worships! I ain't worthy!"

"You are," Chrom counters, standing. "You both are. Ylisse is built on the backs of her citizens. Never forget that I, and all the Exalted family, are forever in your debt. Not the other way around."

Several minutes pass until the villagers, and particularly Bonnie, calm. In the aura of such charisma, how can Bonnie deny her daughter this? They share a tearful goodbye, and Donna promises to return alive. Hearing that, I make a promise to myself to do everything I can so that this woman sees her child again. Shepherds are one.

Our newest member glued to Liston's hip, we march for Ylisstol. Ripples of homesickness, of longing for the capital trickle through our group. Risen and tournaments and bandits and Khans and moronic gatekeepers named Raimi—it's taken a toll, extracted spirit and soul. Even I am hankering for that tough bed in which I only spent a single night. I want to know how Agatha's doing. I want to see Emmeryn again, bask in her radiant peace. Hell, I want to train with Phila and the Air Corps.

Fury and I soar in our usual position flush with Sumner and Esther. We're flying ahead, hoping to bring news to the Shepherds that we might be able to sleep in the barracks tonight. Everyone deserves it. Just one night of respite. One night, on home soil, laughing and drinking and fucking thankful that we're alive.

 _We deserve it_.

I tug Fury's reins, bringing her to a hover. The acrid smell of smoke stings my nostrils.

On the horizon, on her proud hill, painted there against the fading pink of twilight, Ylisstol burns.

* * *

 **Author's Note: Well, here I am with another chapter! This one I hope did pretty well with using action to flesh out characters. I planted a couple seeds, and I'm looking forward to writing more about the new Shepherd as well! And of course I am sure some of you had an "oh shit" moment with that final line. Big things are happening! Interesting things! I cannot wait to share them with you all! Thank you so much for reading!  
**

 **This time I must also thank ThreeDollarBratwurst and mixedvalence for being great partners in crime and giving feedback about the chapter! It's good to be part of the team again, and anyone here who hasn't read their stories,** _ **Birth and Re-Death**_ **and** _ **Earthborne**_ **most definitely should! Please also consider joining our discord server!** **Discord.** **g** **g/ 3mdunvc**

 **And while I have your attention, I've also started a Three Houses insert called** _ **Strings Attached**_ **! Give it a read if you are so inclined!**

 **Now, some long overdue review responses!**

 **TheRebelSkeleton- 10,000 years indeed haha! But I'm back, and I appreciate you sticking around so long!**

 **DestructionDragon360- Thank you for reviewing! I tried make Chrom's rejection of Mike as realistic as possible. He made a hasty, emotional action, and she reacted how I feel like I would have in that sort of situation. I'm also really glad that you like Freya! If it isn't obvious, so do I!**

 **Dracus6- I mentioned it above, but I have a 3H story now! It's not quite what you described, though. Still, it exists!**

 **Rileva- I'd had the rejection scene swimming around in my head for a long time, and writing it was a huge relief. It's great to hear that you think it was handled well! Freya and Mike have a pretty complex relationship, so I love that you've been engaged by it from the beginning! Expect lots more!**

 **Achiever- Thank you for still reading! I'm going to try my best to put out chapters regularly. I learned a lot of things during my hiatus, so it's good to be back.**

 **Indigo One- I had to google who Astolfo was, and I laughed when I saw them. Playing with Robin's gender was a lot of fun for me, and of course characters that haven't met her yet can certainly still be messed with.**

 **Serendipitous- Hello again! A big round of F's for Mike indeed. I'm glad to get yet another review from you! And even more glad that you're still enjoying the story! It's wonderful to be here again and writing. I'm sure you've seen me on the discord server, but I am unfortunately stumped as to who you might be haha**

 **NoteBlade- Perhaps it is time hehe**

 **thebeast29- The real waifu, huh? Possibly~~~**

 **Sigmatic- It's great to have you reading! Hearing that you've grown attached to Mike warms my heart!**

 **Narwhal Lord- I appreciate you dropping in to review! And that you felt the scenes with Chrom and Mike were emotionally mature! That was my goal, so I'm happy to hear that it worked for you!**

 **Kareem- Mike won't be crafting any guns, unfortunately. He'll be carving his own path forward, one that I hope proves satisfying to read. If you do want an SI who builds guns though, mixedvalence can help you out!**

 **ThreeDollarBratwurst- Boi u no wut u do. I'm happy to be back! Very excited that you're along for this ride, too.**


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